


Outlaw's Prayer

by honestys_easy



Category: American Idol RPF, Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Historical, Multi, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 177,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For his entire life, Kyle Peek always longed for the thrill and adventure in the open lands of the wild West.  He gets more than he ever bargained for when he joins up with the legendary outlaw gang known only as The Kings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"I was only twenty-two years old. I was good-looking, desperate, discouraged, and ready for anything that might come." - Pearl Hart_

 

  
Kyle Peek didn't imagine that his first day trying to be a genuine outlaw would end with him being killed by one. 

He couldn't help but think to himself--in this, the last few moments of his young life, if he didn't talk fast and talk _soon_ \--that the revolver pointed underneath his chin was remarkably well cared for, cleaned and polished like it had never left the munitions store. Clearly it had been used before, Kyle was no fool: David Cook didn't get the reputation as one of the most ruthless outlaws in the West by waving a gun around and politely asking for your valuables. The sun's waning rays through the darkening sky glinted off the barrel, each chamber loaded and ready to decorate the Nevada desert with Kyle's brains, and at the base of the barrel Kyle could see the faint yet distinct markings of "AC" tooled into the metal.

"Just shoot him already, Dave," came a voice from behind them--Kyle didn't look in the direction of the voice, wasn't planning on turning his eyes away from the highly dangerous weapon pointed at his face or the highly dangerous man wielding it. "He's seen all of us; he's seen _Andy._ We can't just let him go -"

"He hasn't done anything, Neal," came a voice of reason, one who seemed to effectively cut off Neal's murderous train of thought. "We can't kill him if he hasn't done anything."

David wasn't paying attention to any of the voices around them, focusing his thoughts and his gaze on the young man in his grip, the one with his face in the way of his revolver's path. He cocked an eyebrow at Kyle, wondering what possessed him to even attempt approaching them in broad daylight--or, what was left of it for the night. Far better men had tried it, and their bones lay in the settled dust. "What's your name, kid?" he asked, his voice calm and metered, fearing nothing from Kyle.

With a nervous gulp he answered, wondering if it was standard fare for the legendary outlaw to discover the name of his victims before he shot them down--not like there was anyone left to tell those kinds of tales. "K-Kyle....Kyle Peek." David raised his chin, scrutinizing the younger man steadily, giving no indication if he approved. Hell, Kyle would have told him he was the Queen of England if it'd get the gun away from his head. He rolled over the past few minutes in his mind: watching the four men slow their horses' long, arduous pace from riding all day in order to set up camp at dusk, the desolate terrain empty for miles but for these outlaws and himself. He had quickly tethered his own horse, Gangles, in anticipation; waiting for the right moment to approach them, the adrenaline pumping through his veins like he had never experienced back on the ranch. He left his guns with Gangles because he didn't want to appear to be a threat; now, he was reconsidering that train of thought.

"And where are you from?" the questions continued, with no sign of David loosening his grip on the collar of Kyle's shirt nor squeezing the revolver's trigger.

"California," he stuttered, his mind harkening back to the grassy fields and idyllic skies of his hometown; for a brief moment he wondered why he ever left. He would have never had a gun aimed at his head there, that surely wouldn't have happened; but then again, it was more likely _nothing_ would have ever happened had he stayed, and that prospect terrified Kyle more than the business end of David Cook's revolver.

David took a pause, and Kyle swore he saw a hint of amusement in his steely eyes. "You're quite a ways from home, kid," he snickered. David had to give this kid some credit: he looked scared shitless at that moment, blue eyes wide and focused, like he had never seen a Colt before much less stared one down, but he held his own, giving nothing away that he hadn't planned on in the first place. The last man to stare down this gun, an ambitious bounty hunter by the name of Constantine who was more into the prestige of taking down David and his gang than the actual work behind it, buckled faster than railroad rivets in the desert heat; if he hadn't unholstered his gun while David wasn't looking, the four men might have even spared his life. Might. "You sure you belong here?"

Well, this was it, Kyle surmised; it was now or never. He could take a humiliating licking, back out peacefully and carefully with his tail between his legs, and return back to California to live and die on some ranch that wasn't even his...or he could stand up and do what he came here to do, what he had been wanting for his entire life: to reach for something more. And if it meant getting shot in the process...well, at least it'd say on his tombstone that he tried. He straightened up as best he could when a feared outlaw had him by the collar, and spoke with confidence. "More than anything," he said, "I think I do."

"What do you want, kid?" asked the voice from before, the man they called Neal who had wanted David to shoot the young man and be done with it. That nickname seemed to be sticking. The other three men surrounding Kyle and David had stayed silent for a while, obviously deferring to the man they considered their leader, but David's collected patience proved to be too slow for those who liked results.

Kyle took in a deep breath, feeling the cold metal of David's gun shift along with his intake of air. He stared David cold in the eyes, his face unflinching, and dead serious. "I want to join you."

He didn't particularly get the reaction he was expecting, but the day wasn't going the way he had anticipated to begin with; this was just another quirk, he supposed. The three men surrounding him and David broke out into a medley of laughter, from an amused snicker coming from the lithe man dressed all in black to a hearty giggle from the figure beside him, a shorter man with untamed hair the color of hay, to a great bark of laughter from the blond known as Neal, holding his sides with unmistakable tattooed hands. 

Neal...Neal Tiemann, Kyle guessed, from what he had heard about the gang's exploits through hushed whispers like ghost stories in the towns he visited and the newspapers he picked up along his travels. He was known more notoriously throughout the West as the Dr., a name many feared but few gave explanation for; Kyle had believed he'd warm himself to Neal and the others in David's gang if he learned their actual names instead of what the sensationalized papers called them. Neal was the most dangerous one of the group, with a lightning quick draw and an even quicker temper. Kyle swallowed hard; he hoped in his bluntness he didn't make a rash mistake.

"We're not taking applications," joked the Dr. between peals of laughter, and Kyle thought that was the end of this endeavor and possibly the end of his existence until David flashed a stern look over his shoulder, quickly silencing the other three with no more than a glance. Kyle marveled at the power of that, the authority and sway he held over other men he valued as his equals. Seeing it so up-close left any newspaper's description of it in the dust.

David scrutinized the young man again, and that steadfastness, the damn gall he saw in his eyes to ride up to the four of them during daylight and ask to join still impressing the outlaw. Neal was quick to dismiss him but that was to be expected; David wanted to hear him out. "Why?" he asked, regretting that his voice gave away the hint of something that was beyond curiosity. He met many a man along his travels who fell into the life of an outlaw, far too deep to ever get out; it was rare to meet a man who would risk his life to get _in_.

"You guys...you're the best," Kyle focused his attentions on David, knowing he'd get no sympathy from the others, and knowing David was the one to appeal his case to; he was his only hope. "Most feared gang anywhere in the Territories, it's known all over. Every man, woman and child in every town from here to West Virginia's heard of the Kings."

A smile played upon David's face; as complicated as his relationship with his outlaw career was, it never ceased to amuse him when told of the notoriety of the Kings. "And I..." Kyle continued, a look of wonder crossing his face. "I want to be a part of that."

"You want the money," the man with the unruly hair assumed with a knowing nod of his head. They were feared and renowned, there was no doubt about that, but the one thing that made the Kings the name on everyone's lips were their payouts. Hitting the small, unguarded banks of fledgling towns throughout the West instead of big cities with high risks and heavy security, they managed to rack up a hefty bankroll into the tens of thousands. Though with their well-worn, dusty clothes and the looks of their horses, Kyle couldn't tell where the money was going.

The younger man shook his head vehemently, keeping his eyes on David. "It's not about the money," he insisted, and it was true: he had been comfortable back in California, more than most folks could ever say, and he had left all of it for a life of uncertainty and so much more. David quirked an eyebrow; it was yet another thing about this kid that surprised and impressed him. "It's the thrill; it's the adventure. I want the successes, I want the danger; I want everything."

"You don't want the danger, trust me," Neal piped.

"I want...to feel _alive_ ," Kyle's voice couldn't have been more earnest, couldn't have held more desire for this kind of life, David could tell from the spark in his blue eyes. There was no doubt the kid had the desire, the drive, but the skills had yet to be tested. Nevermind that asking politely wasn't the typical way to join a gang of murderous outlaws. 

David said nothing but lowered his gun silently, uncocking the revolver and feeling the tension drain out of Kyle's body as the cold gunmetal departed from his body. David didn't plan to kill him, not anymore, and he didn't have any inclination the younger man was going to bolt towards the closest telegraph station and give notice of their whereabouts; not when he wanted to become one of them.

There wasn't anything threatening about this kid, this Kyle Peek. Nothing menacing or dubious, and maybe that was the problem after all.

"We don't need a fanclub," David half-joked, taking a step back to fully assess the young man. When they had first saw him approaching, a shadowy figure in the gathering darkness of dusk, the outlaw's instincts kicked in faster than any other sensory perception; they all knew there were always mere seconds between kill and be killed, and one could get a very good look at a lawman or bounty hunter after they were splayed out on the ground, dead. But now that David could get a good look at him, he could see Kyle's youth was exaggerated by his enthusiasm and naivety. He had a decent build, and the tan about his face and hands told David he was no stranger to the great outdoors: a laborer, possibly, someone who got tired of the drudgery of working for someone else's dime at best, or at worst, an escapee from a fate far more sinister than hard labor. He had potential, David supposed, but he knew better than anyone, all the potential in the world didn't stop a bullet with your name on it.

"I'm not useless," Kyle insisted as he felt guns being drawn behind his back: three of them, the quiet man with unruly hair, the mysterious man in black who Kyle thought existed only in legend, and the Dr., whose reputation declared he never missed. Panic started to sink in as Kyle's brow broke out into a cold sweat: was David Cook stepping back to further scrutinize him, size him up for recruitment...or was he just giving his partners a clear shot?

His voice was faster now, more frantic; Kyle believed he was literally pleading for his life to be spared. He quickly listed off the skills he had gained while on the ranch, never knowing when he gained them that they could be the difference between life and death. "I can ride, and fast; I've yet to find the man that can beat me and Gangles in the open plains. I'm great at not being traced: I set up camp, break it down in record time, you'd never even know someone was there. I can track, I can shoot -" he didn't want to mention the only targets he had shot at before were rabbits, not people, or that before tracking the four outlaws that day he used that skill only to find wayward cattle dogs who wandered off the ranch. Those details would endear him to no one. "I'm small, but I'm tough, I can pull my own weight, and...and I want this. I tend horses -"

"You tend horses?" David's ears perked up at the last remark, and while it looked like his mind had wandered during Kyle's laundry list of qualifications, he had actually been listening intently, brow furrowed in concentration. The kid made some good points and while he sounded more equipped for menial ranch jobs, they might be able to make it work somehow. He cocked his head to the right in the darkening gloom. "My horse hasn't had a rest all day. She needs water, and food; maybe even a good rub-down, get the desert out of her coat." He raised an eyebrow again as an indication of his request, not needing to verbally ask for Kyle to get the point. Another advantage in the kid's direction.

Kyle nodded enthusiastically, ready to take off like a shot towards the horses, anything to get away from the menacing barrels of the guns directed at him. But before he took one step, he casually asked, "What's her name?"

The question took David aback; it was the first time Kyle had seen the outlaw less than collected and completely prepared for whatever the world had to throw at him. From the looks of it, surprise wasn't a sensation David Cook came across very often. "What did you say?" he eked out, bewildered.

"Her name," Kyle repeated, an uneasy smile spreading across his face despite himself. He just needed to get to the horses; at least with them, you had good warning beforehand that they were going to stomp the life out of you. "Can't just walk up to a stranger's horse without expecting a good kick in the face. I've got to know her before she'll let me touch her."

It took a moment before David realized Kyle wasn't fooling, or trying to stall for time; he honestly wanted to know the horse's name, and no one had ever asked that of David before, simply marking down the failures of previous horse groomers as the old girl's infamous stubbornness. This kid must really know how to deal with horses, treating them more like friends, like members of a family, than as lowly animals--it was the mark of a true traveler to respect and trust in one's horse in such a way. David hoped his expression didn't give away to Kyle just how impressed he was with him. "Sugarfoot," he replied with a smirk.

With a quick and determined nod, Kyle was off in a flash into the growing darkness of the desert, allowing the stars and the sound of restless hoof beats against the dust to guide him to the horses. He could hear the murmur of voices behind him as he retreated; the group wanted to talk without Kyle in the way, obviously, though his heart was beating too loudly in his ears to make out any discernible words in the conversation. Now that the guns were holstered and far away from him the adrenaline that kept him relatively lucid while facing the gang drifted away, leaving his limbs shaking from the shock. He couldn't decide if he should grin like a madman, hoot and holler out of the jubilation of survival, or turn and run fast as he could towards the closest town just in case the four men changed their minds about shooting him.

But no; he was far enough in already and he'd never forgive himself if he backed out now. He settled on a subdued version of the former, his blue eyes shining in a grin as he approached Sugarfoot, an oddly tender name for the horse of a noted and ruthless outlaw, and cooed over to her gently as he had learned to do on the ranch. _David Cook's horse..._ it was a wonder enough that he had met the man, stared the barrel of his gun down and could live to tell the tale--or _not_ tell it, Kyle wasn't foolish enough to give any of this away--but to actually tend his horse, and be considered as a member of the Kings...the beginning of their conversation hadn't gone the way Kyle expected, but the end result was more than he could have dreamed.

As the snorts and hoofbeats from the men's other horses slowly surrounded his senses, Kyle thought of the other secret he now held, the one most townspeople he talked to wrote off as unsubstantiated legend but his eyes and his mind now proved to be fact.

"There really _is_ a fourth rider," he marveled, and Sugarfoot gave an exhausted snort in response.

***

"You can't seriously be considering this."

Andy saw that look in David's eyes, even in the darkening dusk that was slowly fading to a black, cloudless night; saw the concentration behind the daring expression and knew him far too long not to know what he was thinking. The three men gathered around their unofficial leader, a gang meeting certainly in order. The opinions of the four Kings usually agreed and when they didn't the differences weren't so stark: never before had David wanted to bring a new member into the fold when Neal wanted instead to shoot him.

Truly it was never something they had to bring up before: they had brought in a new member before--Andy remembered when Joey Clement first came to them, but it had been under different circumstances and Joey had never acted like a gobsmacked fan or gawker with them. He had proven himself immediately capable with his shotgun, something Andy doubted this Kyle Peek could ever do. He wasn't so keen on murdering the kid, but they couldn't very well just induct him into the fold; this wasn't some university fraternity or bridge club here.

But now Kyle had seen their faces, had a good, clear look of all four of the outlaws. _All four of us,_ Andy thought with a sinking feeling in his gut; the kid had taken a good look at his face as well. He didn't want to go so far as Neal and shoot Kyle, but if he knew about Andy's identity--if he could identify the shadow of the group, the man that was not supposed to exist--they couldn't let him leave alive.

David's plan, however--the plan Andy could see formulating behind those mischievous eyes a mile away--was completely out of the question.

He threw his hands up, his one burst of frustration over the circumstance he'd allow himself; Neal's extreme emotions usually spoke loudly enough for the both of them. "What, are we going to take in every runaway kid who dreams of being Jesse James?" he retorted to David's peaceful expression, the look of a contemplative man who knew how to grift a mark seven times over and each time execute it with intelligence and proper elocution.

The leader of the Kings raised his gloved hand to his chin, scratching at a deliberately scruffy beard, his interest piqued: it certainly wasn't every day Andy, level-headed, logical, quiet Andy Skib raised his voice to him. Kid's hit a nerve. "He does have some skills, Andy," he shrugs coolly, playing nonchalant while his mind raced on the possibilities, the pros and cons of Kyle Peek.

Shaking his head, Neal interjected; he didn't often disagree with David, but even rarer than that did he disagree with Andy. "He's green, Dave," he was most offended by Kyle's inexperience, how he goggled with wide-eyed wonder even when their guns were drawn and he was unarmed. If the kid wanted adventure, he should pick up a dime novel; Neal Tiemann was no babysitter. "He's so green."

But David was quick to the draw on the Dr.'s accusation, nearly as fast with his wit and sharp intellect as he was with his revolver. "He was able to find _us_ ," he reminded him. Kyle said he was a tracker, and the Kings made sure they weren't the easiest men to find; if he had followed them for God only knows how long, waiting for the right moment to reveal himself, then he possibly had more talent than the others were giving him credit for.

Andy had a different answer for that: the pair seemed to have an answer for every one of David's reasons. David would have appreciated if Joey could come in with his own opinion on either side of the argument any day now. "He could be a lawman, or hired by one to find us," he suggested, the one word that was cursed beyond all others within the group; even the slight mention of the profession brought a sneer to David's lips. On the opposite spectrum of crime and diligence in the treacherous West, lawmen were just as relentless and dangerous as the outlaws they hunted, caring for nothing between them and their prey. Many lawmen along the plains had become outlaws, finding the chase more thrilling and profitable than the pursuit, and vice versa: the blending of the roles, the bent rules and broken promises of the West always stunk to David of lawmen. Bounty hunters were clumsy, lazy and manageable: they were in it for the money, the rewards stacked atop the Kings' heads with each town they visited, each bankroll they lifted. Lawmen didn't want David and his men for their bounty: they wanted to gun them down simply to watch them die.

David held no love for lawmen, and the other Kings knew it well. But when he had stared down Kyle he saw nothing like the cold, unflinching gazes of lawmen he had the misfortune to confront in the past, no notion of the kid biding his time in order to gain David's trust only to gun him down when his back was turned, the fate of many outlaws who were too careless or greedy. And he didn't have the feeling Kyle was about to run off to a higher-up with information on the Kings or their whereabouts: there was fear in his eyes, yes, but when staring down David Cook's revolver it was to be expected there'd be a little healthy fear. What he didn't see was the underlying tension he'd seen before in the informants and lackeys of lawmen, the ones who feared their bosses more than the outlaws they faced. Besides, if the kid was going to turn tail and run back to whomever hired him, he would have done so already--and by the complacent sounds of Sugarfoot within earshot, David knew Kyle Peek was keeping true to his word.

He frowned. Convincing the rest of his crew of what he saw in Kyle's eyes wasn't going to be easy.

Neal dismissed Andy's suggestion with a shake of his head; he didn't trust Kyle so far as he could spit, but he didn't put enough faith in him to be much of a threat, either. "He's too young for all that," he told Andy.

Andy's voice dropped to a softer tone as he shrugged, a voice meant just for Neal to contemplate, to remember. "I was young, too," he shot back, a look between them flashing something David learned long ago not to attempt to decipher. Neal's eyes narrowed and in the ever-growing gloom of night David thought he saw the slightest of nods from his head, but he said nothing more; there had been something in Andy's words and his gaze that stopped him, reminded Neal that not all men's experience or skill should be judged by their age.

"He's not trying to rat us out," said David, a little too loud for comfort, but he wanted to catch the other men's attention and perhaps let Kyle by the horses hear it as well. "I got a look at him, long and hard, and...that's just not what I see in him." He admitted with a shrug that his base was on nothing substantial, that his decision to trust the young man was based solely on his gut instinct; but the three men that rode with him trusted daily in that instinct, that gut, sometimes with their very lives. It may not have been enough to convince them of Kyle's trustworthiness, but it was never overlooked.

Finally Joey spoke up with an easygoing tone to his voice, one hand rummaging through his unruly curly hair to scratch at his scalp, the other resting on his shotgun. Even in times like this, when crucial decisions were about to be made for the Kings, he was breezy and nonchalant, and typically complacent with letting the other three men hash out the details. "Well, are we keeping him or are we shooting him?" he asked; David responded negatively to the latter choice almost immediately, but still the dissension on Neal's face told him this meeting was not over simply because Joey willed it so. "'Cause if we're shooting him, I kinda don't want him near my horse."

The leader turned again to his trusted men, their faces contrary and skeptical when they saw the look in David's eyes, a glint of mischief added with his resolve, like Kyle was a puppy that followed David Cook home and he was requesting permission to keep him. Andy knew many a saloon girl up and down the great plains fell for that expression, gave the outlaw anything and everything he desired for it; but common saloon girl, he was not. "No, Dave; no," he shook his head, but with less bite than before; he already knew the other man had made up his mind.

Indeed, David had decided what he personally wanted to do with the wayward ranch hand obviously far from home, but he never dared pull rank in the group: everyone may have considered him the leader, came to him for guidance and split decisions on the road, but something as important as this required everyone to agree. "Tending the horses alone is a huge asset." David depended on Sugarfoot for more than merely transportation and while he knew the other Kings loved their horses like he cared for Sugarfoot, none of them had the time, patience, or expertise to groom them or keep them in top condition. Kyle's trusted hands would not only be helpful and kind to their horses, but could mean the difference between a safe, speedy getaway and death.

"If he can build and strike camp as fast as he says he can," he continued despite the sour looks on Andy and Neal's faces, "he could shave off hours of our time; God knows we could use it." He gave a quick snicker in Joey's direction. "Hell, maybe we can even get him to cook some good food for us, I'm gettin' kinda tired of Joey making damn beans all the time."

"Hey!" exclaimed Joey, feigning offense. "My beans are delicious, dammit!"

David wanted to laugh, break the tension of the coming night with a hearty laugh from his belly--when Joey wasn't giving his silent yet supportive assent to the gang, he painted himself the joker of the group, always providing much-needed levity on a dangerous road with little to find pleasure in. But he saw that Andy and Neal were in no laughing mood at all. "Yeah, so he could be helpful with camp," Neal conceded, which considering his near-legendary stubbornness David knew was a milestone. At least he convinced him Kyle wouldn't be completely useless. "But we're not out here to camp, Dave."

He could tell what he meant before Neal ever had to elaborate: there was a reason these four men were out in the middle of the Nevada desert, camping at night, leaving before dawn, making sure there was no trace left of their existence as they rode closer on their never ending travels to their next destination. The other aspect of their lives was far more dangerous, and sinister, and wasn't something Kyle could come to them with prior experience. "We've got no way of knowing how he'll react during a job. Are we just gonna let him shoot because he says he can?" It took a certain kind of man to keep their cool during a bank heist; the four Kings learned that through experience, hearing the stories along their journey of failed robbers and outlaws who buckled under pressure, broke and burst when the time was crucial and hesitated when one second of hesitation could cost your life. They knew they were made of sterner stuff; Neal doubted completely that Kyle had it in him. "I don't know about you, but I'm not too sure I want this kid watching my back."

"We're fine the way we are," Andy chimed in.

It was an uphill battle to convince Andy and Neal to any changes, particularly something as important as this, and when they agreed upon a subject with fervor, David knew there was almost no stopping them. Theirs was a partnership steeped in history, predating David's own knowledge, and they understood each other's mindsets more than David sometimes understood his own. He didn't want to bring Kyle into the business end of their life quite yet: the kid had to prove himself, allow some time for the other men to feel him out and know when he would be ready--if he'd ever be ready--to take that extra leap as an outlaw. But Neal and Andy seemed set on never even giving Kyle that chance: it was all of their lives, after all, they were handling, preparedly yet precariously juggling each time they rode into a town with the intent of cleaning it out.

David wasn't winning this battle, and it seemed more and more likely Kyle Peek would be revisiting the sight of the Kings' guns drawn on him very soon.

"But, the last time?" Joey piped up once again, his voice startlingly serious, such a rarity that everyone turned to look. He held his shotgun tighter, a stricken look flashing upon his face, remembering moments from the last heist he'd rather forget. "We cut it close. I mean, we got out fine, but we weren't expecting there to be reinforced doors and if the sheriff's posse had come but two minutes earlier..." Joey shook his head as the other men recalled the events, the shouting and gunfire Joey heard inside the bank that he knew were not part of any of their plans; it was the only time panic had ever set into David's bloodstream during a job, the only time he wasn't sure Joey's backup at the bank's entrance and Andy lingering in the shadows would be enough to get them all out alive. "...We cut it close."

They all knew it had not been a smooth heist: the planning was wrong, the execution had gone awry, and they had escaped with their sizeable payout, but only just. No one man had been to blame but they all silently mulled over their actions in their heads, how they could have done things differently; how one small mistake and their success rate could have plummeted. And in their line of work, just one failure was too many. As the leader David had felt the brunt of this regret--although decisions were made by all of the Kings, he felt the most responsible when things went wrong, and he had spent days torturing himself over what could have tragically been.

Andy nodded silently, his eyes to the ground in thought, while Neal said nothing but kicked at the pebbles by his boots, the wind out of their sails. Neither of them could deny what had transpired in the last town, and they were no fools about needing someone else for added security. The Kings could have certainly benefited from another man on their side, another gun protecting their backs, and David didn't want to risk being unprepared again; but he wasn't sure he wanted to risk the kid's life to save their own skins.

"We can keep him as lookout for now," he negotiated, receiving both a satisfied nod from Joey and a noncommittal grunt from Neal. "Nothing serious. But none of us can say--" he glanced at Neal, who David learned early in their partnership was more stubborn than Sugarfoot, but wasn't bull-headed enough to lack common sense when he needed it. "--that we couldn't use the backup."

David made his case as best he could, though even he couldn't understand why he advocated so strongly for this kid; he could have just as easily shot him as he approached, or listened to his words and found them false or insincere, and left him in the wilds of the desert to die. But he saw something in him, this Kyle Peek, that he deemed worthy enough to keep around. He hoped this time he could continue to trust his instincts. "Just give him one chance," he solicited his men; they could grant Kyle that much, David thought, they had all received their fare share of chances.

It took a moment of consideration but finally Andy assented, his lips a thin line as he nodded once, eyes on their leader. David returned the nod, a gratitude in his eyes that no words could express nor were the words ever needed. It was only up to Neal now, David's second in command, who had wanted to shoot Kyle the moment he saw him. He took a glance over at Andy; their eyes locked again, David noticed, and something intangible passed between the two friends that the other man had no hope to decipher. Neal's eyes grew dark and he turned back to David, a reluctant scowl on his face.

David knew he had won.

"One chance," the Dr. reasoned, pointing with his revolver into the darkened night, towards their tethered horses and the Kings' new recruit. His narrowed eyes told David this kid was his responsibility, that while Neal would dole out the praise to David should the young man succeed, if something were to go wrong he would also know where to place the blame. And if he died, Neal's eyes said as a warning to the other man, that burden would be on him.

David's eyes followed the invisible path Neal's gun barrel made into the night, wondering how much of their meeting Kyle had heard and seen. He hoped, for the kid's own sake, that he was up for the challenge.


	2. Chapter 2

_"You all know the people can't get along very well in the world. There are some good people and some bad people amongst them." - The Apache Kid_

 

 _Feed and water the horses. Loosen their tethers so they won't be so wild when you start to ride. Douse and dirt the fire; scatter the ashes to make it look natural instead of a campfire. Don't forget to fence the pen or the cows may start to wander._

Well, he didn't have to remember that last detail anymore, but all the rest of Kyle's knowledge he picked up on the ranch was certainly being put to good use that morning. He had risen before both the sun and the other men in order to set everything in motion for a quick departure. After the murmur of men's voices died down the night before and Kyle was sure the meeting of the Kings had ended, David walked over to him, a slow, deliberate pace that seemed to calm the horses even more in the dark night, quickly evaluated Sugarfoot's condition, and gave a content nod in Kyle's direction, the biggest compliment the young man thought he'd received from the outlaw that night. When David told him he had done a good enough job, and that he'd get to the other horses in the morning, Kyle had to restrain himself from jumping for joy; it meant that they had decided to keep him there at least until the morning; if some of the Kings had gotten their way, Kyle had feared his life wouldn't last the night. 

David hadn't told him the final verdict of the Kings, but from the hint of a smile in his eyes, Kyle knew the news he awaited with the dawn would be monumental. 

 

Considering he still had a morning to wake up to and wasn't offed sometime during the night due to the gang's change of heart, Kyle believed things could only get better. All he had to do now was make good on his claims, everything he had told David he could do, everything he promised the night before in order to convince the other men he was worth keeping around. He hadn't thought that his life as an outlaw would start by hauling the night's horse dung from the camp and preparing breakfast, but if that was what it took to win the trust of the Kings, Kyle Peek would do just about anything. 

 

The inky blackness of the Nevada sky was slowly giving way to the rising sun, the purple and indigo patterns stretching over the horizon so different from the cloudless blue skies of California Kyle had known all his life. His mind raced with the imaginative possibilities of other skies, of horizons broken by the cliffs and mountains of Arizona, of the flat yet majestic landscapes he'd heard about in Missouri. While the details of their journeys differed with every newspaper he read and bystander he interviewed, the one thing each story got straight was that the Kings were indeed well-traveled, hitting banks within the frontier territories and border states alike. Before he made the decision to leave his ranch life behind, Kyle had never seen any land beyond the grassy hills of his home; now, the dusty, desolate dirt underneath his feet and the quickly rising sun promised him a whole world to see. 

But first, he thought with an excitement coiling in his limbs as he kicked the dead fire's sodden ashes into the brush, he had a camp to strike. 

He had noticed quickly when he awoke, before his eyes could adjust to the violet hues of pre-dawn, before his memory could even remind him of the luck and good fortune that befell him the previous night; one of the Kings was missing. The calm, mysterious one dressed all in black, who expressed displeasure in the thought of killing Kyle last night but showed no love towards him otherwise--he and his horse were gone, leaving even less of a trace of their departure than Kyle could erase. The many dismissed rumors and tales of the supposed fourth rider in the Kings gang buzzed in his head as he had awoken; perhaps he had only imagined there was a fourth rider? One could have never been certain, but Kyle was pretty sure when a man's got expert revolvers cocked and aimed at him and he lives to see the next Nevada morning, he's pretty accurate about how many revolvers there actually were. 

He would ask about the fourth King's disappearance, the man he had heard David call Andy last night--that is, if it all hadn't been one big desert hallucination--but the stares and glowers he was receiving, particularly from the menacing Dr., kept his inquisitive nature at bay. Neal awoke grumpy and his mood had not improved during breakfast or while packing up camp; on the contrary, Kyle noticed he became more irritable as the sun rose higher from the horizon line, a gruff silence acting as an invisible barrier, separating him even from his fellow Kings. Apart from making a mental note to keep his distance lest the tattooed man decide he truly did want to shoot Kyle, the young man paid little attention to Neal's sour mood; perhaps, he thought he'd learn, Neal was simply _always_ like this. 

"I see the horses are ready," David said as he approached, taking a quick but scrutinizing eye over Kyle's work with the campsite, noting with silent approval that it was as if no one ever slept there the night before. After he had tended to David's horse before daybreak, Kyle made sure the others were taken care of, checking their shoes and brushing the desert dust from their coats while familiarizing himself with the horses, speaking in soft, calming tones to let the horses get familiar with him as well. He was planning on doing this job for quite a while. 

The younger man beamed at David, proud of his early morning work and more than pleased that the outlaw was appreciating it, even in his own, understated way. Kyle didn't expect compliments from the Kings but he wanted to prove to them nevertheless that he would be a definite asset to keep around. "Fed, watered, and groomed," he announced; Gangles was keyed in to the happiness in his voice and stamped the ground with a hoof in approval. He moved over to a speckled black and white horse, massive in stature, yet genial and gentled towards Kyle's already trusted hands. "This old boy had a rock caught in his shoe; I'm no blacksmith but I think I got it out alright, good enough to ride." He patted the horse's lean flank as David raised an eyebrow, observing. "Who belongs to this one?" 

David jutted his chin out at the familiar horse, who nodded and snorted in response, bringing a half smile to the outlaw's face. He may not have been David's horse, but they sure had been through a lot over the years; they all had. "That's Sixx," he announced. "He's the Dr.'s horse." 

Like a shock of sparks ran through the horse and into Kyle's arm, he jolted his hand away, quickly separating himself from the horses so they wouldn't recognize his alarm. He was not looking to get on that man's bad side that day, and although he knew with confidence he had taken good care of Sixx, he wasn't taking any chances. He hoped David didn't notice, but that was underestimating the outlaw; there was very little David Cook didn't notice. "It's probably a good idea to give Neal a...wide berth today," he agreed with the unspoken look of uncertainty on Kyle's face, knowing the kid wasn't one of Neal's favorite people to begin with. 

Two pairs of eyes both darted over to the far side of camp, where Neal sat, perched atop a fallen petrified log, his eyes small, irritated slits as he smoked his third cigarette in fifteen minutes. "Is something wrong?" Kyle asked tentatively; he had already decided not to deliberately encounter Neal too often that day, only when necessary, but perhaps it was something serious if the leader of the Kings was making note of Neal's sour mood. 

Shrugging with an apparent indifference that masked his true mood, David answered with caution, knowing the kid was only naturally inquisitive, but also knowing Neal wouldn't want him revealing his life story quite yet. "He just gets..." he hesitated, trying to find the right word; "restless" understated it, while "bitchy" could give Kyle the wrong idea. "... _testy_ , when Andy's not around. Usually it's not this bad, but he gets worse when there's nothing else to focus on." 

Kyle's eyes narrowed as he processed David's advice, and the meaning in between each word, like a hidden puzzle. His mind wasn't on Neal's temperament at all. "What do you mean, nothing to focus on?" he asked incredulously. "Aren't we riding out soon? The sun's already up, and -" 

"Yeah, about that." David scratched his head conspicuously, his eyes to the ground. It wasn't that he had wanted to lie to the kid, but sometimes he learned these things were necessary; a leader's discretion, something he could have only learned while on the run, granting through experience who could be trusted, and who could not. "We're not heading out today; we're close enough to the outskirts of town, any closer and we'd be easily spotted, campfire or not. Today, we just wait for Andy to come back from town, which, hell, even gets _me_ on edge, but it's become a necessary kind of boredom. Besides, waiting around, twiddling our thumbs...it's a lot easier job than what he's doing right now." 

There was talk again of this Andy, the fourth rider, the one that, at least now, Kyle knew wasn't a hallucination. He was still a mystery to the Californian, but he was beginning to get the feeling that was the whole point of Andy Skib; to be a mystery, at best. But that wasn't at the forefront of his mind right now. "You mean I just ran around like _crazy_ trying to clean up camp for nothing?" 

It wasn't the best idea to raise your voice at a murderous outlaw, one who had held a gun to your head the night before and was keeping you alive against the advice of his other, also murderous, outlaw friends solely to flawlessly clean up camp and tend the horses. Kyle thought of this only after he had done it, a sinking feeling in his gut once he shut his mouth and watched David's complacent half-smile fade from his face. He truly hoped that sinking feeling wasn't the last sensation he'd ever have on Earth. 

"I had you clean up camp," David's voice was eerily even, emotionless; calculating. Kyle couldn't glean anything from it, and he wasn't too proud to say it frightened him. "Because I wanted to see if you were lying when you told me you could make our camps untraceable. You were trying to save your own skin, and I respected that; but if you crossed me and my boys, we would have _trouble_." Kyle gulped, a knot forming in his throat at the thought of what these outlaws could have actually done to him if they deemed him "trouble". "And I wasn't going to test you when we actually had to go anywhere. So I figured today would be the perfect time to see if you were being square with me last night." 

Kyle was almost too nervous to ask. "And?" 

David's grim expression gave way to a sly, wide smile; like the night before, when Kyle had not backed down from the Kings' locked and loaded guns at his back or turned tail when he had the chance, the kid wasn't failing to impress him. "If you can shoot like you can strike camp, I might have to replace the Dr. as my sharpshooter point man." 

It was more of a compliment than Kyle ever imagined he would receive from the Kings, especially after just mouthing off to their leader, and for the second time in less than a day he felt on top of the world. It didn't matter to him that David played that clever trick to test his worth, or that it meant waiting, sedentary, for the rest of the day; his hard work was praised and he knew he had proven himself. The Kings might just keep him around, after all. 

The older man held his hands up, slowing down the rolling build of Kyle's excitement before he got too pleased with himself; David would have to note that the kid seemed to take compliments very seriously. "Don't celebrate yet," he warned, his tone turning grave. "You did a solid job this morning, but I need you to do it again tomorrow, when it really counts. As good as this -" he waved his hand out towards camp, which looked nothing like the remains of a traveling party; even Kyle had to admit he had outdone himself. He watched the far side of camp as Joey approached Neal with a genial punch on the arm, then retreated from the deathly glare he received from the blond. Neal was on his fourth cigarette of the morning. "Better than this. They can't tell where we've been; they can't tell where we're going." 

The "they" was vague and never detailed, but Kyle knew well enough not to pry further; David was being vague for the necessity, because the four men never knew exactly who might be on their trail or if they would ever be discovered, be it greedy bounty hunters, ruthless lawmen, or a hapless, enthusiastic ranch hand from California seeking more out of life. He was simply ecstatic to be considered part of the "we" David spoke about. Better "we" than "they." 

"So tomorrow, are you..." Kyle began to ask, his inquisitive nature seeming to always take over when in the presence of David Cook; there was so much he wanted to learn about the outlaw life, so much the Kings could teach him about adventure and _really_ living, and so far their leader was the only one to give Kyle the time of day. He knew what he wanted to ask but the words couldn't come, wouldn't show themselves to the light of the dawn. He supposed only townsfolk and the gossipers of the frontier called the crimes outlaws committed by their names: stagecoach holdups, horse thievery; bank robberies. The outlaws themselves just knew the acts as their job. 

David gave no indication either way on the subject, just a slight shrug to display his indifference. "Depends on what information Andy's got for us." The four Kings knew the outline of their plan, it never wavered from one town to the next unless new information was discovered, and different factors were determined. The details were all different but Joey and Neal considered each heist to be the same: bust in, wave a few guns around, collect the cash, and make a spectacular getaway, killing anyone that would get in their way. But the devil was in the details, and Andy Skib made sure to introduce himself to that devil in the saloons and general stores of each town they hit. David wasn't into the fundamentals nor the details, but he understood the necessity of both; perhaps that was what made him the gang's born leader. 

It seemed much of the operations of the Kings hinged upon Andy Skib; Kyle had started calling the man in his head "the fourth rider," though he felt soon enough that moniker would prove to be incorrect. The outlaw that no one in the public was sure even existed was definitely an integral part to their gang, but Kyle was still not sure just how important he may have been. "What does he do?" 

He was also learning--quite quickly, he thought, but he had always been one to catch on fast, even at the ranch--that when David Cook shrugged, his face a glib, mysterious canvas that gave nothing away, things may not always be what they seem. "He's our eyes and ears in the town," David said, a bit proudly, and though he would take the observation to his grave, Kyle swore the outlaw puffed out his chest ever so slightly while mentioning the gang's well-planned and perfected operations. "He goes in, buys some provisions, does a little bit of talking, mostly spends his time listening. Finds out how the town works, what makes them tick; sees what'll work to our advantage, and brings all that back. Then we plan what we do next." 

Kyle's eyes grew wide with wonder as he let those thoughts sink into his head: the fourth rider of the Kings, overlooked and often dismissed by the public at large, was always among them, riding into town under everyone's attention, gathering information while still remaining pleasant, unmemorable, and unknown. "He's like a shadow," he said, before his mind could stop the words from escaping his mouth. 

David couldn't help but laugh; it was the first time he was seeing an outsider's observation of Andy up close, one that he hadn't read in the newspapers chronicling their criminal exploits. It was Andy himself who picked those up while in town, making sure to take a copy or two if there was any mention of him. "No," he replied offhandedly; Kyle would find out soon enough that Andy was no mystery, none of them were; he'd start to feel at home soon enough to lose this feeling of mystique that made Neal think of him as green. "He's just Andy."

***

Andy Skib contemplated getting a shave. He scratched at his jawline as he rode into town, feeling the thick, coarse stubble that was quickly turning into a full beard from his neglect. He had been teetering back and forth between a clear complexion and a beard, typically noncomittal on either front; he asked Neal's opinion once, and only received a warm, playfully mocking laugh in response, the sharpshooter ruffling his hair and warning him not to become a playboy.

He shrugged to himself, slowing his chestnut horse, Vera down to a walk as the sounds of people and horses and the unmistakable buzzing of a town visited his ears. He could always make a stop at the barber's while he was in, though David would probably joke he should have gotten an updo to match, and apart from the churches and saloons, the barber shops gleaned the most of what he wanted. 

Each town was different, Andy knew this, and he never merely meant the Main Street layouts or the location of the bank on each wood-carved avenue; he never meant just the features the other Kings saw, the thickness of a bank's front doors or the corners and crevices where a shooter could hide. Every town had a story, and with those stories came different people, with desires and goals...and fears. Andy took all of this into account, recorded in his mind the physical schematics of a town as well as its personal climate, factors he always tried to tug and pull to his advantage. 

Most people in any town, he found universally over the past years, had the same fear: the Kings. 

Andy tethered Vera to a post along the main road in and out of Fox Canyon, a tiny frontier town David predicted would teeter and yield to them faster than the new kid could probably heat up their dinner. Built around an old Indian trading post that had long since disappeared along with the Indians, the town itself was, at most, two dozen wooden buildings lined up along a fat artery through town, with the whitewashed planks of the church and the new, flashy bank building bookending the street and laying Fox Canyon's boundaries bare. The rest of the townspeople's homes were scattered throughout the desert landscape, tiny homesteads cultivating what little fertile land could be found in the desert or staking greedy, preemptive claims on land in hopes of discovering oil or gold. 

Neal would take one look at this town, snort through his teeth, and declare it to be just the same as every other town they've hit for the past year. Joey would crack some joke associating the frontier towns with saloon girls: the names and faces were all different, but the inner anatomy all works the same. David would note the juxtaposition of the bank and the church on either ends of the town proper, and remark on which institution was really the root of all evil. 

But instead of buildings and walls, Andy saw people. 

He saw the pack of children making their way to the one-room schoolhouse next to the church, a shy boy with an infectious smile giving way to his larger, gregarious female friend with a head of dark, corkscrew curls. He saw neighbors welcoming each other with hellos and good mornings, mothers with swaddled newborns and men in tattered yet cherished bowlers, thinking themselves distinguished. He saw young ladies bustling down the street, laughing and gossiping with each other as one held a bouquet of wildflowers in her clenched fist, tied together with a baby pink ribbon. 

The most important part of Andy's job, he thought with a respectful tip of his wide-brimmed hat to the passing ladies, garnering another wave of giggles behind demure hands, was that _they_ didn't see _him_. 

Oh, they _saw_ Andy, all right--his ego even wondered if those ladies questioned who that mysterious, handsome stranger was, or if they simply laughed at his attempt to grow a beard--but no one ever noticed him, no one remembered him past initial introductions and a cool yet unassuming smile. It was the way he wanted it, it was the only way his role in the Kings worked: townsfolk were always easygoing with him, always open to a little conversation or less apt to disguise their words lest eavesdroppers be near. Someone with the memory of an ancient might offhandedly recall a traveler passing through the town, gathering supplies like any passer-by. But he had never been connected to the string of bank robberies rolling through the West like a desert thunderstorm, no mention that the notorious Kings might have an inside man. The only rumors of his existence simply told of a fourth man riding with the three known Kings long after a heist, coming from the very few people who saw the men and lived. 

Sadly saying his silent goodbyes to the crowd of ladies, Andy made his way to the first of his stops in Fox Canyon, the one place--save for the barber's shop--where his visit was beneficial twofold: in the general store in each town he gathered the Kings' supplies as well as information. Sometimes he wondered if his role was less about being the shadow of the Kings and more about being the delivery boy. 

"Never seen you around these parts," the man behind the counter scrutinized Andy's face as he handed over a list of supplies, written carefully to be as inconspicuous as possible; no need to list the bullets they'd need next to the tins of coffee. 

Andy knew the drill, could almost recite the same conversations he'd had with dozens of different shopkeeps; despite all their nosiness, not a one could remember his name or face once the Kings blew out of town. "Just passing through," was his answer to everyone, and seemed to satisfy most. "Need some provisions to make it out to California. Could you give me a hand with that list?" 

The counter man, a short yet solid man with dirty blond hair and a kind smile, seemed to take Andy's word for it, and beamed not only at a new, temporary face to talk to, but a long list of expensive items in his hand that would satisfy his profits as well. "Sure can, sir!" he said with dollar signs in his eyes; Andy didn't like being called "sir," never settled right with him, but correcting the man would have brought more attention to himself. He let it be with a pleasant nod of his head; must be the beard. 

"Name's Jon Peter Lewis; lived in these parts since I was a boy, though, so everyone just calls me JP." The counter man held his hand out for Andy to shake in between gathering the various items on the Kings' list throughout the store, a generous smile on his face. He was talkative, itching for a new face in town; Andy thought this was almost too easy. "We don't get a whole lot of travelers down this way, usually those taking the trip to California head through Ely and take that path west. Where'd you say you were coming from, again?" 

Andy smiled, his face completely calm, his actions and thoughts so honed and trained over the years they were near instinctual. He hadn't said where he had come from, he never did, and while it would be easy enough for him to lie and fabricate a hometown--or, hell, he could even say Tulsa if he wanted, he didn't think it would mean much to the happy shopkeeper--Andy knew the less information he told others about himself, the higher chance they'd never even remember he was here. He pointed to a fully stocked shelf high above the shopkeeper's head, an optimistic smile helping JP forget his question was ever asked. They always forgot they asked. "Could I get a pound of the salted bacon, too?" he said expectantly, already knowing his misdirection had worked when JP nodded and hustled to get a ladder. "And a newspaper, if you have." 

Jon Peter, however, seemed to be Fox Canyon's one-man welcoming committee. "We've got a great little town here, if you stay a while to check it out," he said as he teetered on the ladder, while Andy watched the industrious passings of the townsfolk and carefully noted in his mind the function of each building along the street, from the telegraph office to the rowdy tavern, already alive with the sounds of spirited, drunken music and the flirtatious calls of saloon girls. JP pointed out the window, to a smaller building across the street. "Barber shop's open till supper; you know old Phil Stacey's got a steady hand with the razor, he's got not a one hair on that dome of his." 

That wiped the smile off Andy's face; perhaps it really was time to abandon the beard. Jon Peter didn't seem to notice as he hurried around the store, eager to please a customer with such a long list and happy to have a new face to converse with. "Just don't hitch your horse in front of the bank." His voice turned from chipper to something lower; conspiratorial. Andy knew what what tone always signified, and his ears perked; he didn't even seem to have to try very hard in Fox Canyon, the locals were just about handing him and the Kings the bank. "Mr. Hicks is very particular about having any dung outside his flashy new bank building." The shopkeeper rolled his eyes. "I say, this ain't Saint Peter's gates, you're in a horse town, you better get used to a bit of horse dung!" 

But the practicalities of horse dung wasn't the topic in the forefront of Andy's mind. "Who's this Hicks?" he asked, not even trying to circumvent the question. He had a feeling this man could talk all day if Andy let him. "He the banker around here?" 

With a flair of his free hand, Jon Peter held out his pinky as he waggled his eyebrows, miming sipping a dainty cup of tea. "That's _Mister_ Taylor Hicks," he corrected with a roll of his eyes; obviously the man had no love for this banker. If the rest of the town felt the same way, Andy considered, perhaps this would be easier than they thought. "Thinks his bank's the Queen's palace or something. Walks around in these suits he brought over from New York; most days you'd think he was walking 'round to get buried, he even out-flashes the undertaker." JP snapped his fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration. "He's...oh, what's the word I'm looking for..." 

There was one thing Andy had discovered over the years that was universal throughout the Western frontier: whether lawmen, outlaws, or common folk, everyone worked hard for what little they had, and humility and a deep connection to the land made them resent the high societies of the East Coast, the leisure activities of the rich and bored. A man wore a suit for his wedding and his funeral, if he lived long enough to see either; this Taylor Hicks sounded like he was asking to be hated by all of Fox Canyon. "High-fallutin'," Andy contributed. He had only heard that word once but he remembered it well; Neal had used the term when they first met to describe Andy's father.

"Yes!" Jon Peter's face brightened into a full grin; he liked this fellow, though he couldn't recall his name. "High-fallutin'." He seemed satisfied with the answer, and went into a doorway beyond Andy's sightline to find his requested coffee. "And that bank of his, it's even worse than those suits!" he called out behind him as another customer entered the store, an errand boy with a supply list even longer than Andy's. A tall, lanky lad, with startling red hair and a fair, freckled complexion covered by a large hat, the boy looked too old to be a shop boy and too young to be an apprentice; he gulped in air, chest heaving, as if he had just ran the length of the town to get to Lewis's general store. Andy gave him a quick nod as he scrutinized him, feeling less tense about the boy's presence when he received a nod in return, the boy's face red from running and the unforgiving sun. 

"How so?" Andy felt bold enough to call back, feeling confident in the quick connection made with the storekeeper. If this kept up, he wouldn't even have to look around any further, this would be all the information he would need. 

But the presence of the errand boy caught Jon Peter's attention, and the question went unheeded for now. Andy had learned patience on the job, knowing that not all the answers he wanted would be forthcoming; he had to coax them out of a town sometimes, like a hunter who won't react the moment he sees the deer, but waits for the right moment to strike. "Five more pounds of butter, Mr. Lewis," the boy requested, waving his list in the air. "And some sugar, if you've got any left. Miss Kellie says Miss Carrie's cake is gonna be short on frosting without it." 

"I'll get that in a moment, Stevens." It was the first time Andy heard a stern voice from the shopkeeper, who had seemed to be permanently glib and carefree. His life would have been quite different if the worst of Andy's problems was a cocky new banker in town. He turned back to Andy, shaking his head. "Women. Gotta have a damn cake for a wedding. Used up all my stock of sugar for the month on cakes and candies and sugared fruits...women," he said again, chuckling under his breath; Andy joined in, though he wasn't sure if he agreed with that temperament, nor did he know if he ever would. 

"It's a girl's big day. Gotta make the bride happy, I guess," Andy reasoned; he remembered his sister Alexis's wedding, the cakes that looked like pink clouds of sugar, the dozens upon dozens of lady fingers drizzled with honey, all surrounding a bride who was very far from happy. He regretted he and Neal leaving before he could say goodbye to her; it was the only thing he ever regretted about leaving. 

Jon Peter shook his head again, a firm believer in a life without frills. He would have rather that stock of sugar had gone into making his morning cup of coffee. "It's all so unnecessary," he complained. After the trading post had abandoned the town built around it, the Lewis's goods were the only supply store in the area, and the number of order requests for pricey and completely frivolous items--mostly from the women of the town asking for bolts of expensive fabric or glittery notions of no benefit to a frontier family, but banker Hicks was also a big culprit--made JP skeptical to lavish lifestyles, even if for merely a wedding day. "Like Hicks's bank down near the far end of town, all that shine and finery he's got inside, and still, no substance." 

Andy's ears couldn't help but perk up at the resurgence of talk about the bank, particularly when it dealt with the building itself. Paydirt. "Must be a wonder to step inside," he skirted the conversation, danced around the topic expertly. Andy had mastered how to get all of his answers without ever having to ask the questions. 

"Oh, it's a marvel of a building, that one," the shopkeeper conceded, but with a cynical undertone. "All the metal in the building's brass, right down to the doorknobs. Polished wood floor smoother than a baby's rear end. Hell, I bet Hicks would have dipped that bank in gold if it was possible." Jon Peter shrugged as he tallied up the items on the Kings' supply list; Andy spotted the requested boxes of ammunition laid down on the wooden countertop next to a sack of cornmeal, surprised that they were retrieved without any further questioning on why he needed more bullets than a typical traveler would use in a year. "But he spent all his effort on the glitz, didn't give a lick of thought to security. The walls are stick-thin and the place looks like it was put together with spit and prayer. I wouldn't trust that bank, or Hicks, for that matter." 

The supply tally was completed and Andy handed over the cash without a word, concealing the smile that dared to play upon his lips. He was too expert at this game to reveal this man had just handed him a jackpot. 

"Is that your horse outside the store, mister?" the errand boy asked Andy once John Peter disappeared from view into the back room to scour his shelves for the last of the sugar. Andy nodded with a wince; he felt even less comfortable with the term mister than sir. He spent too many years with the three men around him who simply called him Andy. "You might want to keep an extra eye on her," he suggested emphatically. "I heard there's been outlaws around these parts." 

"Don't scare the man with that talk, John," chided JP's distant voice; Andy raised his eyebrows, his thoughts on alert. He hadn't thought anyone had seen the Kings come around these parts from their last heist, save that kid from California that David seemed intent on keeping around as some sort of gladhand. They were confident that their camp was miles away from anyone out searching for them, but their last heist showed them all that they couldn't account for every factor, that they could never be completely safe. Andy became keenly conscious at the revolver holstered at his side; even if his cover as the shadow of the Kings wasn't yet blown, he wouldn't be able to stand here gossiping with the locals if he heard news that the others were in trouble. 

"That's what the bullets are for," Andy chuckled, his attempt at a joke keeping Jon Peter at ease and unsuspecting. John Stevens, on the other hand, whose grandmother never let him come close to a gun, much less familiarize himself with one, took it as Andy's serious precaution. 

"It's true!" he exclaimed, sky blue eyes bright and wide as saucers, eager in a far different way from the shopkeeper. He had been cooped up indoors all day, forced to listen to the tittering gossip of the young ladies of Fox Canyon while they whipped, baked, stirred and sewed, the unlucky boy to be on-hand for all their errand-running needs. It was only a matter of time before the stories those girls told permeated into his head, too. "Miss Pickler said one of her brothers heard it from a trader in Fuller's Ridge; said the town was robbed, bank plum cleaned out, sheriff nearly shot dead. They said..." Stevens took a deep gulp of air, too scared himself to name those outlaws aloud; Andy didn't think the boy had enough knowledge to create dramatic pauses deliberately. "...they said it was the Kings." 

That was more than enough to catch the shopkeeper's attention, as well as the newcomer traveler whose hairs stood at the nape of his neck, though his face remained motionless with a friendly half-smile. Andy never gave away his emotions on his face while in a town, he couldn't, not when he had worked so hard to remain undetected and unnoticed. But in his mind, thoughts raced on what exactly the previous town was buzzing about the famed outlaws, if there were suddenly questions over how the Kings knew when and where to strike; if anyone thought there could have been more to the robbery than three men and a sack of cash. Andy wished he could be at ease with the gang's fame like David was, wondered if he'd ever read the newspaper articles sensationalizing their exploits and not scan the text first for ominous mentions of a fourth rider. 

Jon Peter's eyes widened as he emerged from the back room, his hands empty but his face full of expression, a mix of fear and awe simply from hearing the notorious outlaw gang's name. "You don't say..." His eyes shifted instinctively to the window, the streets as sunny and carefree as they had been a moment ago, but now the man saw the potential for danger there, for trouble. One's world was always free of threats until the suggestion of threat was brought to one's mind. "D'you think they could be coming down here next?" 

Another red flag; another question Andy kept silent for. He wanted to see how this conversation panned out, wanted to know what the town knew about the Kings' whereabouts. At best, he could ride out to them tonight, warn them of the rumbles and suspicions running through Fox Canyon and choose to pick a less prepared and less chatty town; and at worst...at worst, Andy was still aware of the gun at his side. 

"Gosh, I hope not," Stevens's voice wavered; the Kings' reputation preceded them in every frontier town in the West, and their rumored ruthlessness caused chills of fright to run through even the bravest of men. Neither soul in the general store noticed that Andy received no such chill. "Miss Pickler said her brothers heard talk of them leaving south from Fuller's Ridge. They could be headin' straight for us." Jon Peter's gaze turned to the window again, as if mere talk of the outlaws could cause them to appear, or coax a King out of hiding in order to steal this unassuming traveler's horse right out from under him. Andy resented that thought; the Kings were bank robbers, not rank horse thieves, and they'd never hold up a common general store. Even outlaws had their standards. 

The agitation and fear evident on John Stevens's face caused concern to stir in Andy's mind; he didn't care a lick about the boy's well-being, but he could tell the ladies of Fox Canyon weren't the only gossips in town. With the long list of errands in his hand an indication, John was about to make his way through half the buildings and stores on the whole avenue, undoubtedly chatting and relaying this information to the rest of the town. Whether it was met with fear, panic or incredulity, the warnings would certainly be heeded, and the last thing Andy needed was to have a whole town on alert for fear of a band of bank robbers--exactly when the Kings were preparing to strike. He wasn't one to meddle with the affairs of townsfolk, but this appeared to be a necessary circumstance. 

"Fuller's Ridge?" Andy asked, as if the name sounded vaguely familiar to him but wasn't a part of his everyday vernacular. "That town's north of here, ain't it? About half a day's ride?" Both the shopkeeper and the errand boy nodded, their eyes on Andy but their minds imagining the horrible, unspeakable deeds that could befall their small town if outlaws came to target them. It was certainly time to redirect those thoughts before they spread to the rest of the town, particularly that ostentatious banker. "I just came from there; spent a night at their inn, heard the whole place buzzing with talk of the Kings." 

Instantly he had their attention: the errand boy's eyes widened even larger than before, his mouth dropping open unconsciously, while Jon Peter leaned over his wooden countertop so much Andy thought he'd topple right over. "D'you know what happened?" he asked; the trail of information by word of mouth was more trusted in these parts than anything in paper and ink, and usually arrived faster. "Was it actually the Kings? Did their sheriff really get shot near dead?" 

"Did anyone else get hurt?" John Stevens was almost too frightened to ask. 

Andy recalled his own memories of Fuller's Ridge, the heist that was supposed to go flawlessly but something went off-plan. He had been lazy, he blamed himself; too much time spent in the saloon and not enough time casing the bank. The streets were supposed to be empty as David, Neal and Joey hit the bank right before it opened for business, but the doors to the building's back room had been reinforced with new steel locks just arrived from Pittsburgh, and the terrified bank owner couldn't remember how to manage them, especially when under the pressure of David Cook's revolver at the back of his head. Andy hadn't seen what had transpired in the bank but he remembered hearing the sounds of gunfire echo off the bank's walls, remembered his heart ceasing to beat, his lungs to breathe, until he saw all three of his partners escape with barely enough time to evade the sheriff's posse. He remembered counting down the minutes in his own agitation before he could escape the town and make it back to the others, forcing himself to make appearances and act as shocked as the rest of the town so as not to cast any suspicion his way. He had seen the sheriff after the Dr. had been through with him, a bullet wound clear through his firing forearm; it'd have to be amputated, and the sheriff was lucky enough that Fuller's Ridge boasted its own town physician. 

He remembered David's stony expression as he washed the banker's blood from his hands and clothes, never speaking of what happened in the bank's back room to any of the Kings. 

But of course, that wasn't the kind of story he meant to share with these men. "It shook the town up quite a bit, that's for sure," he downplayed the townsfolk's panic after the Kings blew through; no need to spread that sort of sentiment into Fox Canyon. But they didn't have to know everything, either. "I showed up long after they had gone, but a few of the men there said they saw them riding out of town, heading north, not south. No one could have caught up to them by then, but they saw them, clear as day."

"Really?" Jon Peter hung on his every word, their conversation much more important now than the idle gossip they were sharing about Hicks before. Why, that was just JP blowing off a bit of steam about the pompous banker, but this...this could be a cause for concern and security for the whole town. He turned to the errand boy with an accusatory tone. "Who did you say told you the Kings were riding south?" Stevens repeated that it had been one of Miss Pickler's brothers, or any combination of them, really, as Miss Pickler hadn't specified when she unraveled her yarn of a tale to the rest of the wedding party. He gulped as Jon Peter narrowed his eyes and shook his head in doubt. "Those Pickler boys," he said with a disappointed sneer; with their long histories of underachievement and laziness, he would rather take a stranger's word over the third-hand testimonies of those boys.

He turned back to Andy for confirmation; the earnest look on his face, and that of John Stevens, told Andy all he needed to know. These men were going to believe anything he said so long as it meant they were safe from the danger of the Kings. "They headed north, you say?" he asked.

Andy nodded as he gathered up his supplies from the counter. "Don't think you're gonna have that kind of trouble around these parts; not from that gang, at least." The shopkeeper and the boy heaved near simultaneous sighs of relief, the constant threat of the wild, violent frontier abated for the moment. Andy could just imagine that freckled errand boy returning with his charge of butter and sugar, bringing with him good news to spread to the rest of Fox Canyon, reaching the ears of even the sheriff and his deputies, and even Hicks, the flashy banker.

This town wasn't going to know what hit them.


	3. Chapter 3

_"My advice to the boys in this country is not to steal horses or sheep, but either to rob a train or a bank when you have got to be an outlaw, and every man who comes in your way, kill him; spare him no mercy, for he will show you none." - Black Jack Ketchum, on the date of his execution_

 

 

Kyle wasn't expecting to spend his first day as an outlaw sitting around camp, waiting hours for news to arrive and doing absolutely nothing in the interim. Well, he reconsidered, technically it was his second day as an outlaw; his first day had him staring down the barrel of David Cook's revolver, with the other three members of the Kings at the ready to follow suit. Considering how that had transpired, perhaps Kyle should reconsider the advantages to sitting around all day.

He had certainly had his own brand of activities and excitement that day: after David had informed him that his eager, industrious striking of camp that morning was simply a test to determine his worth, Kyle had the task of setting everything he packed back into place, albeit at a slower pace than that morning. There was no rush now, David assured him; Andy wasn't slated to return until late, when the town was asleep and dark, and wouldn't notice one missing traveler escaping on his horse into the night. Kyle wondered how any of the Kings knew that Andy would immediately return, that nothing would impede him from getting back to camp that night; he voiced his concerns only once, and only to David, who answered with a grim simplicity that, though a little late at times, Andy always returned.

What had surprised the young man was the lightening of some moods with the brightening of the day: Joey, the one who sported a shotgun and a head of unruly hay-colored hair, had softened his attitude toward Kyle immensely since the previous night, when he had felt the stare of those shotgun barrels behind his back and feared for some moments that they would go off. Joey had clapped a friendly hand on Kyle's back and thanked him for the job he had done on Joey's sandy-maned horse, Gilbert, who had stomped and snorted unpleasantly at Kyle until he took a grooming brush to Gilbert's coat. "I'm not very good with hair," the outlaw jokingly admitted, patting down the volume of his own hair and causing Kyle to laugh for the first time since he left California.

Joey took to the eager Kyle right away, the two members with least seniority in the gang forming a fast bond. He took a lighter perspective on situations than the other men of the Kings, preferring to laugh during their down time instead of contemplating their next heist, like David, or silently brooding, like Neal. When Kyle prepared lunch for the four of them, he instructed Joey on how to properly cook their meat stores using what little provisions and cooking heat they had, showing him how to rely on something other than canned beans. And in turn, Joey helped Kyle improve his shot, providing him with practical theory on firing at targets that would not be as stationary nor as harmless as what Kyle had encountered before. Kyle confided in him, once he was sure David was out of earshot, that he had only shot rabbits before, his admission weak as he held up his two pistols ineffectively.

"The good part is, people are usually slower than rabbits," Joey countered, helping Kyle practice sighting objects and movement from far distances instead of actual shooting, which would certainly lead to some questioning by anyone within earshot of the pistols. "Bigger, too. The bad part is, rabbits don't usually shoot back."

The only man at camp that hadn't warmed yet to Kyle was Neal--he hadn't spoken a word to the newcomer that entire day, and Kyle thought it was just as well, heeding David's warning and keeping well away from the Dr.'s notorious temper. The only times the sharpshooter moved from his perch on the deadwood log was to converse very briefly with David, or to tend to Sixx and keep him watered in the sweltering Nevada sun. All other times, Kyle noted, his eyes were on the horizon, a thousand-mile stare towards the direction of Fox Canyon--the location of their next heist, David informed him, and subsequently the location of Andy Skib, their fourth rider whom Kyle had called a shadow.

Careful not to overstep his boundaries, Kyle asked only when the sun hung low in the sky and he and Joey watched with amusement as prairie dogs popped in and out of their underground hovels, greeting the cooler air of dusk and avoiding capture and certain death by patrolling hawks. Joey was equally unsure what his fellow Kings would prefer the young greenhorn to know, but he answered as best he could. If David was so set on seeing the kid's worth and bringing him along for the ride on this heist, he may as well be privy to a bit of history.

"Andy and Neal've known each other the longest," he began, after Kyle asked--in the most polite, unassuming manner possible--why Neal appeared to get even more irritated when Andy wasn't around camp. "Eight years, around, or something like that. They started this whole thing: Andy sneaking into towns, casing the place out, and Neal coming in later to do the actual deed. Met with Dave about two years into it; that's when they started hittin' banks, calling themselves the Kings. Gettin' in all the papers." Joey grinned as he watched a falcon swoop down in a death-defying nose dive to the ground; one prairie dog was apparently not quick enough. "I came aboard on this ride about a year ago. Funny story, really; you should ask Dave about it. He loves to tell stories."

Kyle figured he would ask David, eventually, but considered the evening before his first bank heist wasn't the best time to get inquisitive with the leader of the Kings. There were a lot of things he was looking to ask, so many more things his young mind craved to know and discern what was true about the Kings and what was fabricated in legend. But the opportunity faded with the sun, the desert cast yet again into its nightly routine of darkness and shadow, of firelights and the sounds of a land teeming with nocturnal life. The four men's chatter descended down to silence along with the sun, further words unnecessary until Andy would return with more information on Fox Canyon; Kyle only spoke up once during the night, questioning David if it were wise to leave such a bright, burning beacon as the campfire when bounty hunters and lawmen scoured the West for their whereabouts. But David was adamant that the fire remain burning, if only to keep the scavengers of the desert away from camp, and it was Neal's voice that spoke up in rare protest that the light was necessary for Andy to find his way back.

It was late into the night, the sliver of a moon near completing its grand course through the night skies and Kyle seriously contemplating joining the sun and sinking down on his bedroll to rest, when the faint sound of galloping hooves startled him, effectively shaking any weariness from his bones. The sounds grew louder, the horse and its rider growing closer to their camp. Taking the cue from the others he watched silently as the rider approached the camp, their inaction a clear indication this man was no threat.

Neal had spoken to him first, the only visage from his perch that would have moved him from his eagle-eyed position, and even more, bring a smile to his face.

"You got a shave," were his first words to Andy upon the younger man's return, reaching out to rub a playful thumb along his smooth cheek. Andy smiled and scrunched his nose in amusement at the intrusion, and gave a wink as his only response while the other men welcomed him back to camp. Although his mood seemed light and thankful to be back with his partners, and he greeted David with a warm handshake and accepted Joey's playful punch on the arm--Kyle was noticing that was Joey's preferred method of salutation--Andy had not warmed to Kyle's presence any since the previous evening. It seemed even a day alone with his thoughts on David's decision and the one chance the Kings were giving the young man could not change his view.

"Coffee?" Kyle asked meekly, holding out the tin pot he had brewed at dusk and kept simmering atop the fire. Andy said nothing to him, granting him but a dark stare in greeting, his face grave and unwelcoming by the flickering light of the flames, and while he had no kind words for Kyle, he accepted a mug of coffee when it was offered, now a thick, sludgy liquid far past its prime. Andy took a sip of the coffee, then examined the mug's contents with a sour look on his face before turning to Neal, mug outstretched, and requested a draught of whiskey to remedy the drink.

"Why is there bacon?" Joey asked quizzically as he unpacked Vera's saddle bags, the disparaging hock of meat not previously on the Kings's provisions list, but somehow making its way into camp. Though, perhaps now that the iron frying pan had passed hands from Joey to Kyle, the bacon would be put to better use.

Andy eased himself down in front of the campfire, using its light to help him search through his own bag at his hip. "Impulse buy," he deadpanned, elaborating no further. Neal snickered, eyes on Andy, remembering some long ago inside joke known now only by himself, and possibly one other. David watched with a stoic patience as Andy found what he had been looking for, and tossed it lazily over the fire to him, warmed but unscathed. David carefully fanned out the crisp new set of playing cards in his fingers, their blacks and reds dulled in the fire's orange glow, selected four cards from the fifty two without a word, and discarded the rest into the fire, watching the flames lick at the cardstock before engulfing them, obliterating any trace of the deck save for the four kings safely residing in David Cook's shirt pocket. Once again Neal snickered, this time shaking his head and being joined by Andy, another joke among them that Kyle hoped one day to understand.

Kyle was quickly entranced by the way the Kings seemed to fall into a comfortable, near instinctive pattern when the four of them were together, a camaraderie built upon years of partnership and trust. With the little amount of communication at the camp during the day, there seemed to be even less now with the return of their final member, a buzzing, full silence that told Kyle more was being said without words than most could say with epic poetry. Once the provisions were unpacked, Joey settled down at the fire next to Kyle, already knowing from the calm yet insistent stare David cast around at his fellow outlaws that something was indeed about to begin. "Watch the magic happen," he instructed Kyle under his breath, but fell silent as their attentions yielded to Andy and his findings.

"There's a wedding tomorrow," he began, recalling the conversation he had with the shopkeeper and the errand boy in the general store, as well as the chatter he gathered while listening patiently in the barber's chair, his attentive ears ignored by the other patrons fancying themselves up for the occasion. The barber, a tall man with kind blue eyes and no hair to speak of on his head--he claimed the best way to advertise his ability with a razor was on his own dome--was more than pleased to take Andy's patronage. "Reception's at nine, the 'I do's at eight."

"And here I am without my Sunday best," Neal joked, patting his chest with a tattooed hand, chuckling as a cloud of desert dust arose from his shirt and vest, effectively proving his point. David laughed, a lighthearted shine to his eyes, and reached around the fire to slap a hand on Neal's back, causing another miniature dust storm. Kyle goggled in disbelief, never imagining he would be witness to one of the West's most notorious outlaw gangs pulling jokes and laughing like schoolboys or old drinking friends. They contributed to Kyle losing the grand mystique of the Kings the townspeople's rumors and the sensationalized newspaper articles helped build up in him, but he was coming to determine he didn't mind it at all.

Though smiling, Andy shook his head; that wasn't what he was getting at, and Neal full well knew it. But, Andy thought rather pleasantly, a planning session wasn't quite the same without a little levity from the Dr. "We're not going," he reasoned. "But the whole town will be. Stores shuttered, school's closed...even shutting down the sheriff's office." David wasn't particularly interested in the comings and goings of Fox Canyon, not to the extent of Andy Skib, but he couldn't help but perk up at attention from this last detail in Andy's report. A wedding in a small frontier town like this could easily be the sole social event of the year, but rarely did it take the sheriff and his deputies from their post. The leader of the Kings raised an eyebrow at the other man; a silent cue to elaborate.

Andy grinned in satisfaction; despite the tedious nature of his work and the bellyaching it caused from action-minded Neal, sometimes it paid off in a substantial way. "The sheriff's the one getting married," he revealed, which garnered a celebratory whoop from Joey, who was usually complacently silent during the planning process. "It's a big to-do; all the deputies, all the citizens, everyone's getting tied up in this wedding." He looked over at David with playful, pleading large eyes, remembering the harried errand boy at the general store and the purpose of his orders. "There'll be cake."

"No cake," David said sternly, and Andy's smile downturned into a mock pout. Kyle didn't think he'd ever understand the intricacies of the Kings's partnership.

"So it's an open and shut job," said Joey excitedly; after the last heist and the problems it caused, he was eager to get through a relatively easy robbery with no unforeseen surprises.

Holding up a finger to still Joey's excitement, Andy continued. "The bank," he said, gaining Neal's attention through his interest in each individual bank's layout and obstacles, "is on the other side of town from the church. We've got eight, nine minutes before anyone from the wedding could even get to the bank, and that's only if someone's around to set off any warning alarms." He took his outstretched index finger and drew a line in the dusty ground at his feet, followed by a triangle at one end and a square at the other. Sitting directly across from Andy, Kyle had to strain his neck around the fire to get a glimpse of the other man's diagram, but from the two pairs of eyes still trained on Andy's face and not on the lines in the dust, Kyle determined David and Neal didn't even need to see it to understand him. "The building itself is wood; no troubles there. No back room, no fortifications; bars are all brass, and so are the door fittings. There's a safe," he pointed his finger into the square; this he had confirmed for himself, partly because it was more than necessary to case the bank itself and not simply the town, and partly to see if all the town's mutterings about the ostentatious banker were true. "But it's a sphere-lock, easy enough for the banker to open himself if there's a bit of persuasion."

David nodded solemnly, his demeanor as well as his entire body growing rigid and serious at the talk of the heist the next morning. Neal may have been the sharpshooter, Joey may have been the intimidating lookout, and Andy may have been the shadow, but no man inside the Kings or out could rival David Cook's methods of persuasion. "Anything else?"

Shrugging noncommittally, Andy drank down the contents of his mug, both the coffee and the whiskey sure to put hair on his chest. He remembered his visit to the town's saloon in vain: usually a hotbed of gossip from the saloon girls lounging inside and a blind eye to the more sinister and curious of Andy's questions from staff well acquainted with outlaws and thieves, Fox Canyon's watering hole was a bust. The bartender, who in most other towns was a fountain of knowledge vital to Andy's investigations, could barely hold himself together to pour the liquor, much less spin yarns about the quality of bank security in the town. "Only that the saloon's bartender has it bad for the preacher's daughter," he supplied, the extraneous detail being gleaned from the man's habitual tears throughout Andy's respite in the saloon, and the other local patrons chiding him for bellyaching over a match that was never meant to be in the first place. David gave a disinterested snort in response; there was a fine line between useful information about the town and its people, and gossip not even worth the breath it took to speak it.

"Sounds easy," Kyle tried to contribute, but was quickly silenced by David, the first time the outlaw had used a rough tone towards him since that morning, when Kyle had underestimated David's calculating cunning. He was learning quickly not to underestimate anything about the Kings.

"This is never easy."

Feeling sufficiently rebuked, Kyle shrank back into his seat, remaining silent for the rest of the meeting in order to give leeway to the seasoned outlaws and, as Joey had claimed before, to watch the magic happen. He certainly didn't know what he was looking for in those terms but he expected something quite exciting: everything about a bank robbery must have been planned to the letter, the timing of the break-in, the heist, and the getaway synchronized perfectly, before any lawmen or authorities could figure out a crime had even been committed. When he first set out from California to the wide worlds of the unknown plains, Kyle could hardly keep his excitement at the mere thought of witnessing a bank robbery, of the chaos and mayhem blanketing a masterfully orchestrated plot. Now, not only was he going to witness a heist, but watch its planning, experience it from inception to execution.

Kyle kept waiting for it to happen but all he saw around that campfire was a wagonload full of nothing.

The Kings fell into a lull of silence, with Joey easing back against a log, hands lazily cradling his head, while the other three matched a stalemate staring contest at one another above the campfire's flames. Their gazes were stark and full of purpose, any greenhorn could determine that, but Kyle couldn't fathom how any of them could decipher what was behind each other's eyes. Dark brown, cold blue, and an undefinable hazel made for a trio of glares, none of which Kyle ever wanted to be caught staring into with a gun pressed to his throat again. There were no words passed among them but they all seemed to have an understanding of one another, a comfort that only came with years of trust and reliance, very literally entrusting each other's lives in their hands.

Then came their voices, words and phrases detached from any meaning for Kyle, but were processed, decoded subconsciously, by the three Kings. "So the safe--" David began, but cut himself off after an affirmative nod from Andy.

"Only one," he said, an answer to a question unspoken, but a question known to the young man all the same. "We could come in through--"

David waved this proposition off before Kyle could even determine what it entailed. Boy, were these guys _good_. "Too risky," he justified, then paused for a beat, his brow creased in thought. "But if the banker..."

This time, the rejection came from Neal, gaze shifting from Andy to David, shaking his head. "Not risky enough."

The banter went back and forth, words and disjointed phrases batted around and lobbed to one another over the campfire, an orchestration Kyle's mind could barely keep up with. He had been to a rodeo once, a spectacular treat as a boy to see the trained riders race their horses around impossible barriers and curves, darting through obstacles so quickly a young boy could get whiplash trying to keep up. This felt oddly similar to that situation, Kyle's neck feeling worn from following the parts of conversation the three men were actually verbalizing, but different, in that there was a determined conclusion to trick horsemanship and rodeo games; it might have been fast, but he could see everything that was happening and what would happen because of it. This was entirely new, and he wasn't quite sure he'd ever understand it.

After a few more dizzying moments where Kyle came quite close to keeling over in confusion, the three men nodded, their strings of phrases cut short, and a conclusive silence overtook the group. "Well, that settles it, then," Neal pronounced, procuring a cigarette from his vest pocket and lighting it over the campfire.

There was no official word of disbandment, but the atmosphere around the fire changed decidedly, from one of conspiracy and creation to that of finality and rest. Neal dragged on his cigarette and departed from the group, though his manner seemed far less brooding than before, and more as an indication that he did not enjoy the planning process of a heist. Watching the Dr.'s retreating frame, Andy leaned back on his elbows, kicking at errant sparks from the fire with his boot heel and wishing the investigation of Fox Canyon had taken longer than a night; perhaps he could have splurged for a big feather bed in their inn instead of sleeping on the ground. David remained still but closed off, no longer sending or interpreting the nuances of his partners' clipped phrases or eyes. The meeting was certainly over, but Kyle felt more confused than when the Kings had sat down for the discussion.

No one else seemed to be confused or even slightly fazed by the recent meeting with nary a full sentence uttered; Kyle feared he thought he was hallucinating the whole thing, again.

"You should get some rest," Joey said with a half-hearted, exhausted swing at Kyle's arm. He was already yawning and searching for a comfortable place to lay down his bedroll. "Gonna be a big day for you, I'd bet."

Joey's light punch awoke something in Kyle, jump-started him out of his wide-eyed confusion, and his face contorted into a confused stare. "But..." he shook his head. "What are we doing??"

"I," declared Joey, "Am going to bed."

"You understood all that?" Kyle waved his arm at the fire and the empty spaces surrounding it where the members of the Kings once laid their best plans for bank robbery before them--or, at least, that's what Kyle assumed he just witnessed. 

The older man shrugged. His was not to reason why, he had always believed. His was but to do or die, or do and _not_ die, truly; he was never much of a philosopher. "Don't have to," he said; the unique non-communication Kyle had seen transpire was only realized among the three founding members of the Kings, and Joey was simply along for the ride. "My job is to stand by the door and shoot anyone that comes near--not that complicated. And if it is complicated--" he threw a thumb in the direction of the other outlaws, David finally rising from his position out of a contemplative stare. "--I trust whatever plan they come up with." His voice grew low, and despite his exhaustion there was a seriousness to Joey's tone that Kyle had not heard all day, and hadn't been aware existed before that moment. "I trust them with my life."

Still wholly unsure of the events of the Kings's meeting--and becoming more unsure by the moment of his eagerness to join with the Kings--Kyle watched the fire glumly as the men around him began to depart and prepare for sleep. All except David, the leader, the man who ultimately made the decision to give Kyle a chance that the Californian would do anything to live up to. David was friendly yet firm, his lightheartedness during the day overshadowed by Joey's gusto, and he did seem to warm to Kyle's presence at camp...but the harsh glare he received that morning when he talked back to David, and the memory of the cold gunmetal of David's revolver on Kyle's skin added up to the man being more of a mystery than even the newspapers made him out to be.

He doused the fire with piles of mud and dirt, scattering the charred logs with his boot heel and eliminating the main source of light for the camp. Phantom flames still lingered in Kyle's eyes as they adjusted to the dark, the stars from the heavens seeming so much brighter now in contrast to the fire's absence. He felt a hand clamp on his shoulder, and only then had he realized he had been holding his breath.

"Just clean up camp tomorrow like you did this morning," David told him, his tone more of a reassurance than an order, though it was still not to be ever taken lightly. "And keep your ass out of trouble."

Kyle thought it was the least he could do; his mind was barely able to process the past day's events, of confronting the Kings and living to see the morning, of being given this one chance to prove himself worthy and join them on their adventures. He didn't think his brain could function well enough now to even attempt to get into trouble. When David lifted his hand from Kyle's shoulder and spotted a place to rest for the night, Kyle suddenly felt the weight of the day on his limbs, an exhaustion stemming from his excitement, his liveliness, that he had never experienced before. Without putting thought to his bedroll or any other nightly precaution rituals commonplace in the desert, Kyle laid back, embracing the chilled night air as his blanket and the desert dust as his bed, and immediately fell asleep.

***

A sharp poke at his side awoke Kyle from his exhausted slumber. He had forgotten about the events of the night before, or perhaps still imagined they were a dream; he thought he was still back at the ranch, fallen asleep in the grassy hills of California, being nudged awake by a cow's hoof or Gangles's caring nose. It was only when he tried to swat the intrusion away and pull his blanket back over top him that he realized he had no blanket, that these were the barren deserts of Nevada instead of his fertile home, and the intrusion calmly poking at his side were the twin barrels of Joey Clement's shotgun.

 _That_ was pretty effective in waking Kyle up and bringing him to his feet in record time.

"What?" Joey asked cluelessly as Kyle's body fought hard not to allow his heart to stop, his eyes wide and trained on the gun in Joey's hand, his breath coming in panicked gulps. The older man followed Kyle's stare, a bit slow on the uptake. "Ohh," he sighed, finally catching on, though his indifferent shrug was less than the apology Kyle expected for waking him up with a gun to his ribs. "Well, it wasn't like I was planning to shoot you."

Kyle had barely enough time to register his displeasure, much less voice it to Joey; his eyes darted around the camp, readjusting himself to this reality with the Kings, and saw that the others were wide awake as well, beating the sun and its daily rise. Neal, a determined look on his face replacing the scowl that had resided there yesterday, soothingly patted the flank of an already saddled Sixx, irritated by the early hour just as much as Kyle had been. And while Joey's horse was also saddled and ready to ride, Kyle noticed very conspicuously that David's pride horse, Sugarfoot, was still yet to be prepared.

"That's your job." A voice answered his thoughts directly behind him, startling Kyle and causing him to jump, yelping in surprise. Joey tried not to snicker; Neal gave no such effort. Whirling around, Kyle found himself face to face with David, a serious expression doing nothing to mask his disappointment in the newcomer sleeping in. He nodded once again towards the horses, eyes narrow and voice unforgiving. "You proved you're good with the horses, you saddle them." David read the confused look on Kyle's face, and found it necessary to explain the state of Sixx and Gilbert. "Joey got restless, didn't want to wait around for you to saddle Gilbert. And as for Neal...well, Neal just doesn't trust you."

Kyle waited patiently for the "yet" tagged onto David's observations, that glimmer of optimism and hope he had given the young man the day before when he spoke of his efforts, but it never came, and it caused Kyle's heart to sink, hoping his one chance to prove himself to the Kings was not lost. "This is...early," he commented instead, his eyes barely adjusting to the dim light of predawn, the camp, horses, and the Kings themselves cast in indigo shades, like icy ghosts along desert plains.

David shrugged indifferently, his eyes and attentions on the far horizon of Fox Canyon instead of on the kid beside him. "Andy said, 'I do's at eight," he recalled about the sheriff's wedding from last night's fireside conversation, the beginning of their silent plan that Kyle still knew nothing about. Sometimes he thought it might be safer that way. "We want to make sure we hit when there are as few people around as possible--we don't want stragglers leaving before the reception."

The mention of the fourth rider's name brought him to Kyle's attention once again; or, to be more accurate, brought the absence of any trace of him to the forefront of Kyle's mind. Once again there appeared to be no sign the man had ever been at camp in the first place; even the hoofprints of his horse seemed to have been eroded away by the desert sands. Kyle knew that he was not hallucinating the shadow's existence this time, but one could never be too sure. "He's gone again," he found his mouth forming the words without his permission; while the leader of the Kings had been quite accommodating towards Kyle, there was a time and a place for curiosity, and this was neither.

"Andy will be fine, don't worry about him," David assured Kyle, just as he assured himself every time the other man rode out without security or cover. His tone, however, held nothing reassuring about it. He had been handling this kid with, appropriately, kid gloves since he stumbled upon their camp and asked to join them, seeing potential and a thirst for adventure that could lead to his success; but this was do or die time, and he would prefer Kyle Peek not end up the latter. "What _you_ need to worry about is getting your own job done."

He hiked a thumb over his shoulder towards the camp, Kyle's eyes taking in doused and filthy remains of the fire, their cooking remnants, and the sludge-like contents of the coffee pot Andy chucked into the plains grass before he had fallen asleep the night before. He had a lot more work to do to make the Kings untraceable, and a lot less time to do it. Kyle set his jaw, his resolve firm and determination fired in his veins, and set to work striking the camp with as much enthusiasm as he had for the task the day before. If this was to be the way he'd prove himself to David Cook and the other Kings, then he was damn sure he'd do it right.

***

Cleaning up camp that morning was, apparently, not the only task charged to Kyle during the bank robbery of Fox Canyon, and he would have really liked it if someone had informed him beforehand.

The four men set out from camp before the sun broke over the horizon; they took the trail into town at a slow pace, making sure to keep their horses rested while they could and keep their energy in reserve for a speedy getaway. Keeping Gangles at a walk was close to painful for Kyle; his enthusiasm and excitement over the day's events had only been building in his body while he cleaned camp and saddled both his and David's horses. He had never seen a true bank robbery before, only read about them in newspapers and whatever sensationalized dime novels he could get his hands on between here and California. And the dim, harsh truth was that he had never witnessed anything spectacular or exciting in his life, nothing to compare to the thrill he had the past two days simply by being in the vicinity of the Kings. And he wasn't merely going to watch a robbery: he was a _part_ of this plan. Though his role was pitifully small compared to the other four men involved, it was more excitement and responsibility that had ever been bestowed upon Kyle while he lived. Barely able to contain his energy, he nearly kicked Gangles twice from flailing in the saddle, and that would have truly given away his greenhorn status.

Ironically, the one man among them that shared Kyle's energy was the Dr., the ill-tempered sharpshooter who hadn't warmed to Kyle's presence with the Kings in the least since he arrived. He spoke rarely that morning, as he had done the previous day, and David warned once again that Neal's temperament might remain a bit sour, but he was smoking less frequently and itching to spur Sixx into a gallop towards the bank. He had no patience for David's planning or Andy's stealthy observation; Neal was all about the heist itself, feeding off the adrenaline from bursting into a building and striking terror in its inhabitants, wielding the power of life or death in his hands and doling it out to any man foolish enough to get in their way. It was certainly not the most secure of career choices, one where most who follow its path find themselves in shallow, early graves, but in the moments of the robbery, the smell of victory in the breeze when they would all gallop away scot-free...Neal knew loving this job was an acquired taste.

He saw the jittery excitement of the new kid atop his horse, wondering each time if he was going to kick that poor horse into a frenzy, at best providing some amusement at the kid's expense on their ride, at worst announcing their presence to anyone they did not desire to alert. Neal shook his head, still cold toward the matter, and in disbelief that David wanted to keep the young man on indefinitely. It was one thing to take advantage of what little skills he had for this one instance and leave him in some beaten, one-horse town to lighten their burden, and quite another to induct him wholeheartedly into the Kings. And, Neal thought darkly as he watched Kyle lean over towards his horse's ear, apologizing for his outburst, he wasn't going to prove himself in the Dr.'s eyes by simply cleaning up camp.

The distance between their encampment and the borders of Fox Canyon was not far, but it felt like ages at the pace David set before them, the sun peeking up past the dusty plain, rousing the animals of the desert, by the time the frontier town came into view. Even from their faraway vantage point Kyle could see the makings of a celebration on the far end of town, its drab, wooden buildings swathed in white and pink bunting, the smell of fragrant, fresh wildflowers lingering in the air and mixing with the unmistakable smell of fire-roasted beef, cooked in the open air. The church's Sunday bell rang through the air, its brassy _clang_ smashing through the silence of the open desert like a lead hammer, a welcome bout of noise to Kyle after the slow, silent ride he and the Kings had just endured.

None of the riders had anything to keep the time along with them, but they were all well aware that the bell beckoned the people of Fox Canyon to its call, rang in the wordless news that a wedding was about to commence.

David couldn't help but eke out a smirk at the sound of that bell, clear and loud, reverberating through the desolate canyon that gave the town its name. With such a sonorous church bell, calling farmers and miners from miles away to sermons and celebrations, christenings and funerals and everything in between, he knew it had to be the only instrument for miles that could make such a sound. That settled it in his mind: the church bell _was_ the town's only alarm, for good news or bad, and by the time anyone came to sound the warning of a bank robbery it would be all too late.

Without a word, David slowed Sugarfoot to a stop, his eyes on the gathering of townspeople by the whitewashed church, like little ants in their best suits and new dresses from their distance, emptying the tiny town, unwittingly leaving it vulnerable. He dismounted without dropping his gaze from Fox Canyon, and Neal and Joey quickly followed suit, leaving a perplexed Kyle atop his horse, wondering if this was part of the plan devised through broken phrases and decisive looks he couldn't hope to understand.

"There's the bank," David pointed to the near end of the town, away from the gathering of wedding guests to a building that was not whitewashed like the church but just as bright and gleaming in the rising sun. Andy's observations were more on point than David gave him credit for: the bank building seemed to shine and glitter in the sun due to its gaudy brass fittings on the doors and windows, the malleable and easily broken metal making for a showy yet superfluous spectacle that could be seen by travelers from miles around. It was a sight more suited to a circus grandstand rather than a bank, though David always considered Barnum's addage that there's a sucker born every minute fit ironically well for financial investors as well as sideshows and snake oil salesmen. Maybe Hicks the banker was just trying to give that irony a physical manifestation.

Leading Sugarfoot carefully over to Kyle, David nodded in the town's direction, his face devoid of amusement; now was not the time for poking fun or pleasantries. "It shouldn't take long," he said, handing over his reins to the kid, who, despite maintaining a thoroughly confused expression on his face, accepted the reins numbly, never turning down an opportunity to form a bond with the outlaw leader's horse. "You can see us enter and leave the bank from here." David waited until Kyle nodded, still without a clue to the Kings's plan, but with enough sense to remain quiet and do as he was told. "Once we're in, count to three minutes--you can count, right?" He had to make sure, after all; David had been in some pretty gruesome bar fights over a hand of cards where his opponent couldn't tell a ten of diamonds from an eight.

Kyle nodded once again, but he couldn't hide the confused expression on his face, and finally his curiosity and frustration bubbled up beyond his polite silence. "What am I--" he began, but David held up a hand, quickly cutting him off. This was no time for interruptions.

"When three minutes are up," he instructed, wasting no words as sometimes he was apt to do in less urgent situations, "Lead all the horses down to the edge of town, and wait for us there." Something in David's face grew dark and serious in the daylight, a stark change from the jovial, laughing visage with the other Kings Kyle had witnessed the night before. There was much more to David Cook, he was learning, than what first meets the eye. "Don't come any closer to the bank. Don't come _in_ to the bank. Don't make a sound, don't try to be any kind of hero. We've been doing this a long time," The Kings had honed their skills and devised their plans down to a science, a well-oiled bank robbing machine. The boy was worth having around for the skills that he had, but David set a hard line with himself on letting Kyle interfere with their business. "I don't want you messing this up."

He couldn't admit--not to the kid, not in front of Joey and especially Neal, and not even to himself--that he had ulterior motives to keeping the inexperienced would-be outlaw away from the action in town. David didn't dare let the young man stick around and get into the thick of the action, not for all the thrill-seeking in the world. If Andy had been wrong with his observations and a stray sheriff's deputy was patrolling the area, or some gunslinging good Samaritan gathered the balls to take on the Kings, the situation could get dangerous, and even deadly, very quickly. He remembered his knee-jerk reaction during the last heist, how he panicked at the unexpected for the first time in years, and, for the first time in years, regretted the bullet he shot in another man's head. He wasn't going to be responsible for another innocent death; if he was going to get somebody killed that morning, it sure as hell wasn't going to be Kyle Peek.

"But what if there's trouble?" Kyle made a last-ditch attempt to work his way into the heist; he had gone so far, traveled with the Kings and was only minutes away from witnessing a real, exhilarating bank robbery. He couldn't let this slide without trying to go the extra mile, both figuratively and literally.

David frowned; and Kyle shirked back slightly, disappointed in himself that he once again got on the wrong side of David Cook. While Andy had treated him with cold indifference last night and Neal with silent hostility, David's moods towards Kyle were unpredictable and harsh, welcoming and joking one moment, darkly serious and emotionless the next. Kyle almost preferred it when he at least _knew_ someone despised his existence. "Andy handles lookout," he said succinctly; it explained the mysterious fourth rider's disappearance, yet again, from the camp long before Kyle had awoken. He pointed a stern finger at Kyle, who felt like a reprimanded child, the legendary outlaw his schoolmarm. "Just stay out of our way, you got that, Kid?"

Before Kyle knew it, the three gunmen disappeared down into the canyon, appearing more to be enjoying a Sunday promenade rather than preparing themselves for a bank heist, leaving Kyle with their horses, alone on the ridge. It was another blow to his anticipation, his excitement over confronting the Kings and attempting to join them; perhaps he had been too presumptuous to think that a clean camp and calm, saddled horses guaranteed an easy ticket to the more dangerous aspects of the outlaw life. He knew tending the horses of one of the most notorious bank robbing gangs in the West was a monumental responsibility, that the amount of trust and belief David had in him over such a short period of time rarely ever occurred. But despite all this, Kyle still stared, dejected, out towards sleepy, unassuming Fox Canyon and the retreating outlaws coming to turn it on its head, wishing that he could join them.

***

Fox Canyon was a ghost town by quarter of eight, and Andy didn't like the feel of that one bit. The streets were already barren, like a pox or plague had swept through the town, decimating the population, preserving buildings and roads and everything else that couldn't wither and die. Even the church bell joyously luring the townspeople to its call echoed the unending warning bell of a funeral, a death. It unsettled him, how eerily silent and still the streets became, though he couldn't have asked for better conditions to overtake a town and liberate them of their finances. But the empty town felt almost _too_ perfect, _too_ easy to infiltrate.

After riding through the town the previous day, meticulously mapping out each building, each crack and crevice, Andy settled upon the space between Jon Peter Lewis's general supply store and the telegraph office as a prime location to hold watch: narrow yet accommodating, the tiny breezeway left as a fire precaution gave him a perfect view of the bank's facade at the end of the street. Even more important was the quick and easy concealment the location provided him from the avenue, and from any stragglers that may have decided to leave before the happy couple tied the knot.

He smirked to himself; a shadow, hiding in the thin, long shadows of a Sunday morning sun. The other guys would think it was hilarious.

His eyes were wide and attentive when he saw the three familiar figures approaching from beyond the canyon, slowly at first, and on foot, as they had planned the night before. With the eager young Californian now bounding around their boot heels, David thought it would be the best time to arrive on foot and have him monitor the getaway. Andy and Neal's glares showed their disapproval of David's trust in the kid, but the leader of the Kings stood firm, planning to fully utilize the horsemanship skills Kyle touted the first night they met. David surely got what he wanted, but Andy still feared the expense; he no longer doubted Kyle Peek's intentions, only his ability, and it wasn't just David's life he was gambling with by entrusting such an important element of the heist in the kid's hands.

As the others reached the edge of town they paused, readying themselves, and then broke out into a run towards the bank, their guns drawn, their positions in this job well known and well practiced. Instinctively, Andy's hand unholstered his own gun and kept it at the ready by his side, though considering the empty streets and the dull, faraway drone of a preacher's matrimony sermon on the far end of town, he didn't believe he'd need it. The adrenaline rushed to his head though he was standing still as a corpse, his ears buzzing with energy as he watched Neal kick in the bank's door, the flashy yet unsound fittings easily giving way to the force, and they entered the bank with the determination and confidence of professionals.

Andy took in a deep breath; just as always, once David and Neal entered the bank, with Joey entrusted to guard the front door, the plan was set in motion and there was no way anyone could attempt to stop it.

***

Taylor Hicks didn't have a wife, or children--none that he knew about anyway--but if he did, he supposed he might feel the same kind of love towards them as he felt about his bank.

Those simple-minded, bull-headed townspeople would probably claim the contrary, but Hicks knew in his heart that he only wanted one simple and pure thing in life, and that was beauty. There was nothing rewarding or beautiful in the base, filthy mining and farming with which these people seemed to love occupying their time; Hicks sought beauty in the threads of the finest suits imported from the Northeast, the curvy hips of seductive saloon girls, the unparalleled austerity of a Baroque facade. His love for beauty was what brought him to this wasteland the locals called the Nevada Territory, though the prospect of adding onto his fortunes was also a favorable motivator: he wanted to bring true marvels to these simple people's lives, these rank farmers and tireless miners who had probably only seen the shine of the sun and not that of polished metal, of precious stone.

His bank, his gleaming, unrivaled monument to beauty, was his gift to Fox Canyon.

Of course, money was also a factor--there was nothing more beautiful to Hicks than the smell of bank notes, the cool, slippery feel of gold in hand--and the tales of the great West had informed him Nevada was full of it, the potential to make more money even higher. Silver mines had sprouted up throughout the territory, with the opportunistic and the desperate alike looking to dig for their fortune. Had to have some place to store all that wealth for safekeeping, Hicks thought, and so he had set out across the plains in his own unique journey to strike it rich.

The bank he had constructed in the fledgling town was beyond even his own expectations: glinting in the sun and outshining the tired whitewashed church, sparkling by starlight like it was Fox Canyon's very own star come down to Earth. He spared no expense on polished wood and brass, with bright, bronze-plated statues of classical nudes flanking the front door and stained glass adorning the iron-latticed windows, casting a rainbow of light into the lobby at any time of day. He wanted to splurge for marble or granite for the facade, and cart in the finest architectural painters from the other side of the Mississippi to decorate every surface with lavish narrative and color, but the resources were dismal here, and Taylor had to make do with what he could muster from the local slack-jawed labor.

There was no reason to open the bank that Sunday, no soul particularly interested in their financial future on a typical day of rest, especially when that day incorporated a raucous wedding celebrated by the entire town. But Hicks was not one for the frontier weddings that were little more than excuses for gluttony and debauchery, when the townspeople did not even know the meaning of such words, such finery that he was accustomed to at parties and celebrations. Besides, he thought as he stood proudly in the bank lobby, surveying the splendor he created, the brass bars and window fittings would tarnish quickly from the dusty atmosphere if he did not polish them, and he wouldn't entrust the duty to just anyone.

Yes, Fox Canyon's First National Bank was Taylor Hicks's pride and joy, his beauty and his only love, and in three minutes it was going to be no more.

The front door to the bank burst open with a bang, sending glittery, shattered brass, and splinters of wood scattered to the polished floor. Hicks spun around in shock, his eyes unaccustomed to the already unbearably bright sun pouring into the lobby through the now demolished door. Three silhouettes broke into the unfettered sunlight, their frames casting looming, ominous shadows along the floor, stretching towards Hicks as if the shades themselves could reach out and destroy him. His eyes were still adjusting but there was no mistaking the firearms in the three men's hands, how their grips tightened around the triggers as they strode inside.

No one was supposed to be at the bank, no one was supposed to break away from the gaiety of the wedding and disturb Hicks this early Sunday morning. As the banker's eyes widened with terror, perhaps that was exactly what the outlaws were counting on.


	4. Chapter 4

_"All my life I wanted to be a bank robber. Carry a gun and wear a mask. Now that it's happened I guess I'm just about the best bank robber they ever had. And I sure am happy." -- John Dillinger_

 

  
One cowardly banker. Just one banker, already crouching in fear, trembling and too terrified to even let out a shriek. The rest of the building--rest of the town, to really be accurate--was completely empty, and the flashiest, most unsecured safe to ever make its way out of the smelt left right out in the open, with only a paltry combination between the bankroll and the open air.

David Cook wanted to laugh. They were making it too easy.

The bank was just as gaudy and ill-prepared for a break-in as Andy had described to them the night before: the glint off the poorly-used metals, combined with the early morning sunlight flooding the room and ricocheting from the glitz nearly blinded him, and David wondered how the lowly banker could even stand all that shine. He squinted, his eyes focusing on the cowering banker on the floor of the lobby, and suddenly the revolver in his hand and the Dr.'s show of force by knocking down the door seemed like overkill. He could have stormed this place with a slingshot and an evil eye if he had so wished.

But this was business, and in the Kings's line of work they could not afford to take such chances.

David took a step into the bank through the demolished door, noting that it hardly took any manpower, and no firepower at all, to break into the building. Usually there was at least a resistance from a sturdy front door, if not the bank employees. He glanced over to his left, where Joey stood solidly, his shotgun in hand, a trusted gunslinger with little hesitancy to use it. Despite his light, joking nature, David had immediately grown comfortable with the other man protecting his back during heists, knowing that, while some of the intricacies of the life of the Kings sailed over Joey's head, he was content with it all, and would fight to the death with stubborn resolve. David admired that in Joey, but at times he wondered if his friendliness and loyalty were aroused simply because he had no better place to be. With a short nod, David sent him off to his station at the front of the bank, Joey taking two large, stomping steps before planting himself firmly in position, gun at the ready.

The man at his right needed no such indications or orders from David; his role in these robberies, his action and execution established before David himself had arrived, his experience with a gun older than even he could remember. If he was assessing the situation and seeing how easily the bank would roll over and _let_ them overtake it, Neal didn't show it; a cold, steely stare at the banker gave away nothing, his true talent as a man requiring few words revealing itself. The other two Kings present already knew this about the Dr.; David didn't know if banker Hicks would be around long enough to remember it.

They didn't wait for the dust to settle on the shards of wood and brass that used to be the front door. "The safe." David's voice was a low, dark growl, as if he captured his normal tone and rolled it around in the thousands of miles of desert gravel traveled underneath his heels. He always thought the action of a heist didn't affect him like the others, not the determined fervor Neal displayed or the restless anxiety to which Andy admitted; perhaps he was affected more than he imagined. "Open it."

Neither man could identify any longer if the instinct came from years of bank heists, a morbid sense of practice and routine, or if Neal had become so attuned to David's ministrations, his very mood, that what needed to be done came intuitively to him. The sharpshooter raised his gun at David's request, a heavy revolver balanced perfectly in his tattooed hand, the dyes and inks used by the Creek to grant him those tattoos so lasting and vivid, Taylor Hicks could see every detail of the "T" adorning the Dr.'s knuckle that settled on the gun's trigger. David was by far not a bad shot, especially at this range, but Neal was unequivocally the firepower of the gang and the entire West knew it; the man's aim could scare the fur off a mountain lion, and the unsuspecting banker was no mountain lion.

Hicks stared in horror at those tattooed knuckles and the gun within their grasp, could almost recognize the other miles of ink running up his forearms from the descriptions found in any newspaper, embellished by second- and third-hand accounts. The decorations that adorned the Dr.'s flesh were just as legendary as his deadly accuracy. Hicks knew now that he wasn't dealing with petty thieves or amateurs: his bank was being robbed by the Kings.

From what he had heard, he was lucky to still be alive.

The banker's grim fear caused him to hesitate, pause for just a moment, but it was a moment too long for David. He gritted his teeth and raised his own gun, two barrels bearing down on Hicks and one very perturbed outlaw he didn't want to cross. " _Now_ ," he commanded. They did, after all, have only three minutes until they needed to be outside and on their horses, halfway out of town. They had no time to waste on this man's fear.

Where one gun shocked Hicks into dumb stillness, two guns and a very stern order from David Cook jolted him into action--or, at least, as far as the banker concerned, what constituted action. "Don't shoot, don't shoot," he replied, his normally gravelly, soulful voice high-pitched and strained out of fear, hands up, defeated, to show he was unarmed. Even if David had the time to wax philosophical on this banker's existence, he wouldn't bother expending the effort. "I'll give you what you want, just please, don't shoot me..."

He hadn't been planning on shooting Hicks--he thought nothing of hurting him, he hadn't met a banker yet that didn't deserve a bit of roughing up--but if he kept up his begging like this, a simpering mass of cowardice in a linen suit, barely acting like a child much less a grown man about the situation, David might reverse his opinion. Nodding his head to the direction of the building's back wall--where, astoundingly enough, the bank's safe sat unguarded and on display--David made his request clear again. "I'm not going to say it twice," he menaced.

That, however, didn't stop Hicks from begging for his life at every turn, from backing his teary-eyed way to the safe as David's revolver stayed trained on him, his face contorted as if he would burst into fits of crying hysteria at any moment, to when he sank to his knees in front of the safe, a shaking hand on the combination lock seeming to be the only thing keeping him steady. David followed him to the back of the building to keep an eye on the banker, ensuring nothing sudden or particularly sneaky caught the Kings off-guard, though he doubted Hicks could ever formulate any kind of counterattack off the top of his head. Neal and Joey did not make a move, they did not have to; each man knew their roles, had performed them often, and wordy, eloquent David was always the negotiator.

The safe itself was a small, iron-based microcosm of Fox Canyon First National Bank: its exterior was covered in gilt and decoration and almost seemed to emit a light of its own from the glint of the morning sun. In all the years in his line of work, David had to say he never saw any other safe like it, and only a man so obsessed with style in lieu of substance like Taylor Hicks could have decided that safe was a sound idea. Beyond the gilt the safe was one of the shoddiest David had ever seen; he bet he could have looked at it the wrong way and it would have crumbled open. It would have saved him the effort of dealing with Hicks as it were.

Hicks's hands trembled as he fiddled with the combination lock, his hands and face dripping with a fearful sweat. David understood this was quite a stressful situation but time was of the essence; this wasn't the bank's typical withdrawal and he had no patience for Hicks's panic.

"Two minutes," Joey called out; one-third of their time gone, one-third of the heist until the three of them needed to meet Kyle with their horses and make a clean escape. Hicks was quietly praying to himself, realizing that he was getting no sympathy from the outlaw before him. The Kings had already demolished his beautiful front door and looked to clean out his safe; he only hoped if he relinquished the bank's riches they would leave the rest of his pristine building alone, and let him walk away with his bank and his life. If anything, Hicks's useless pleading made David wish to cause bodily harm even more; he'd experienced unfortunate, fearful bank owners and tellers before, none of whom were calm or pleased with being held up, but none in recent memory were as pathetic as this individual. His mind flashed back to the last banker he had encountered, the town's name or the man's face unimportant to anyone but himself and God, the only thing truly on David's mind being how his flash of panic felt hot, like a sudden and quick pocket of air blasting you in the summer, when that banker made a sudden move and David shot him in the head.

He didn't want to have to do that again--not when Hicks was cooperative and merely irritating, not when he didn't seem to be armed--but David was sure the banker knew it was a possibility.

Finally Hicks completed the combination, a quick, loud click resonating in the building followed by the unmistakable sound of metal swinging against metal, the heavy iron door opening to reveal its precious contents. The flashy and fake gilt that enveloped the bank, on its safe, the walls, even on its owner, paled in comparison to the genuine article, a small stock of silver and gold nuggets culled from the Nevada outskirts sitting atop stacks of crisp bank notes that complemented their value. Hearing that door swing open was like an angels' chorus to David's ears.

_Paydirt._

***

Kyle _wanted_ to do what David Cook had ordered him to do; really he did. He learned quickly enough over the past few days not to cross the outlaw lest he get on David's bad side; Kyle imagined there must have been many a skeleton buried in the dust of the West now that had gotten on David Cook's bad side. And while he wasn't participating in the robbery itself, the care and readiness of the Kings's horses was entrusted to him, a serious role that could make or break a getaway. Sugarfoot nudged Kyle's leg with her muzzle, affirming the thoughts in the young ranch hand's mind: there was nothing more precious to a man of the West than his horse, not even all the gold to be found in California, and David Cook entrusted his precious horse to Kyle's skilled, able hands. Why, Kyle could say that his was the most important job in the entire outfit: the outlaws could get away without the bank's riches and still escape with their lives, but without a speedy retreat aided by their horses they would certainly not get far.

And to do all that, Kyle had been instructed, he was to stay at the top of the canyon and come down only when three minutes had elapsed from the time Neal, Joey and David stormed through the bank's front doors. David had been firm with him and accepted no backtalk, and Kyle was left a mile out of town with four horses and a forlorn expression on his face. Tending to the horses might have been one of the more important tasks during the heist, but it definitely wasn't the most exciting.

He just wanted to see the action, really; he had gotten so close, he was actually riding with the Kings and gaining their trust, on his way to becoming one of them. There had to be nothing in the West more exciting than a bank robbery, and now he was close to it, but not close enough. A mile away and he could make out moving figures just fine in the town below, could see no one apparently around any part of that side of Fox Canyon as the wedding commenced at the church on the other end, with no one being the wiser of the heist taking place at the bank. But it wasn't nearly close enough for Kyle's liking, and he could only make out movement and figures, like ants traveling through a colony, and not discern true faces from that distance. What if a posse accosted the Kings before Kyle could bring them the horses, and the young Californian had no way of discerning from that distance who was friend, and who was foe?

Yes, he thought, that was the perfect reasoning for him to move the horses a little closer, get a better view of the action than from a clear mile away. It was not even in the back of his mind that David had also warned him not to interfere at all with their planning or execution of the heist. He wasn't looking for gold or glory, just to see them work a little more in detail, and if push came to shove and the Kings had their backs against the wall by some lawmen or an angry mob, wouldn't they _want_ Kyle to help them out?

Of course, exactly _how_ he would help them out if they needed it--he was a marginal shot with his pistols and his lithe frame and youth weren't the most intimidating factors in the world--nor the absurd idea that the notorious outlaw team would need help from someone like Kyle, who was green admittedly even to himself, was beyond him. But, as he led the small group of horses down into the canyon, confident no one would even notice his early departure, he had complete faith in himself, his duties, and the Kings, that this was indeed the best possible idea for all.

***

"One minute!"

David didn't need Joey's shout of alarm to maintain the time in his head; he didn't need to know the exact number of seconds they had to get out of there, only that they were quickly running low on them. He watched as Hicks painfully pulled the bank notes and gold out from the safe and into the outlaws' waiting sacks, literally handing over the lifeblood of his business. The banker was not only feeble and irritating to David, but he was horrifically slow in doling out the cash as well; David started to think that if he did shoot this man it would be a kind service to the rest of the inhabitants of Fox Canyon.

"We haven't got all day," he grumbled as Hicks filled the last of the bags with the safe's stash, his hands trembling so fitfully they were threatening to drop the bags and cause him to start all over again. David snatched them from the banker as soon as they were offered, cinching them closed by their drawstrings before tossing one each to Neal and Joey, retaining one for himself to haul outside. It hadn't appeared to be a substantial bankroll, perhaps only a few thousand, but David wasn't expecting much from a new bank in a tiny frontier town; in fact, the small windfalls the Kings made at each one-horse town were their relatively risk-free livelihood.

Besides, for David at least, the heists weren't all about the money; that was only a pleasant fringe benefit.

His mood perked up considerably once the sacks of loot were in the Kings's hands, and nothing left them tethered to the bank besides a weeping, broken banker who hadn't a scratch on him, not even a tear in his gaudy suit. When the money passed hands Hicks scrambled into the corner of the bank, cowering away in fear; he didn't care much for the country yarns the townsfolk wove, but when there was talk of a recent robbery by the Kings that left the banker's brains splattered decoratively against the wall, Hicks listened.

When he felt a sharp tap against his temple--and oh, God, that was not the tap from a hand, that was cold gunmetal against his skin, and he was lucky he didn't fall into a dead faint right then and there--he wanted nothing more but to ignore it and hope the murderous outlaws would just cease to exist, but he raised his head anyway, assuming it sealed his fate.

The leader of the Kings towered over him, a shadow against the ever encroaching sun, tall and imposing in contrast to Hicks's crouching form. A smirk spread across the outlaw's face, cruel and menacing, and with his free hand he reached into the front pocket of his shirt. "I'd really like to thank you, sir," he said, the grit gone from his voice as he sounded light, almost cheerful, the smile never wavering and terrifying Hicks more than his scowl. "You've been most...accommodating this morning."

With no further flair or pomp to his actions, David pulled out what he had been searching for in his pocket, and tossed it onto the cowering Hicks. "Make sure this gets in the newspapers," he gave a parting order, and the three outlaws left the bank as abruptly as they came, leaving the banker with a lone playing card of the King of Spades.

***

The sun blinded the three Kings as they burst out onto the empty street, each with a sack of gold nuggets and cash in tow. As sure as Joey's countdown, they had only been inside the bank for three minutes, but their eyes had already acclimated to the sudden darkness of the bank's interior, and now they were paying for the sudden strain back to light. With his left hand gripping his gun, David raised his arm to shield out the sun's rays from his eyes, his gaze deep out into the distance, past the streets and crevices of Fox Canyon. He should have seen a welcome sight into the distance: Sugarfoot, and the other horses, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake as they were led into town by an enthusiastic yet obedient Kyle Peek. But all that came to his vision was the barren Nevada soil, curving up around the canyon as if it would swallow the three men whole.

Kyle may have been enthusiastic but it seemed that he was less than obedient.

"Damn that kid," David muttered under his breath, not knowing it could have been the last words he had ever spoken.

***

Andy breathed a sigh of relief when he watched the other three Kings leave the bank without incident, only admitting to himself then that he had been holding his breath warily since they entered. He had been dreading hearing shouts, or a gunshot, or anything that would indicate something had gone terribly off-plan in the bank and there was nothing he could do about it, like the last time. But there had only been silence since he counted down the minutes, a professional, glorious kind of silence Andy never thought he would enjoy hearing so much. Everything was going to plan, that silence indicated; everything was running smoothly, and the omens Andy had felt before had been for naught.

But indeed, something did seem off; Joey was searching around frantically, his shotgun at the ready, and David's eyes were on the far horizon with a frown on his face. Andy bit back a groan; it was that damn Kyle, the kid David had entrusted the getaway into his incapable hands. If the leader of the Kings held such a disappointed expression on his face it could have been only for Kyle's absence; it would mean his faith was misplaced as well as his horse. The three men looked at each other for their next move, contemplating if they should wait for the horses' arrival that may never come, or take the dangerous path of escaping Fox Canyon on foot. Andy knew each man was quite able-bodied and could make it to the top of the canyon with ease, but no man knew what kind of opposition the town could muster to lick at their bootheels on the way out.

A flicker of movement beyond the three men caught Andy's watchful eye, and he realized that Kyle Peek's whereabouts were the least of their troubles.

He recognized the man clear as day, though he was seeing him now in the bright morning sunlight and not underneath the dank lamp light of Fox Canyon's saloon. His short-cropped, sandy blond hair and stout, solid frame loomed in Andy's memory, as well as the dim expression on the man's face that told the outlaw not much was probably going on upstairs. His name was less memorable, though Andy was admittedly better at remembering faces than given names, but this time the circumstances stirred his memory, recalling the angry patrons of the saloon shouting the man's name, Sarver, and instructing him to get over his loss of the preacher's daughter.

The preacher's daughter. The heartbroken bartender. _The sheriff's blockbuster wedding._

It was all making sense now, but it was too late.

Drunk and lovelorn, Michael Sarver wouldn't have gone within a half radius of the joyful wedding occurring at the church on the far end of town; why would he, when the only woman he cared for, the woman who rejected his affections and fell for the damned sheriff, was the one getting married? His melancholy brought him to a bottle of the saloon's cheapest, dirtiest gin, and with his pistol in hand he decided to make a spectacular end of himself on the other side of town, just as the object of his affections said "I do" to another man, or at least make enough of a racket to disrupt the happy little couple in their moment of bliss.

But then he saw the three men rush out of the bank as he stumbled out of the saloon, heavy sacks in their hands and looking for trouble. Maybe it wasn't quite time to write himself off yet; maybe this was his chance to win Miss Underwood's heart by doing what the sheriff cannot, and truly be a hero.

Everything felt in slow motion to Andy, like he was locked in a glass case full of water, able to watch what was about to happen but not to break out, not to act. If he shouted, caught the other Kings's attentions, it would leave him exposed to the rest of the town, and then to all of the West; the only way he could work as a shadow was by being an unknown, and revealing himself could forfeit his life or any one of the others. He tried to line up a clear shot but the other men were in the way, standing between him and Sarver, equally blocking their own salvation and doom. He watched in turmoil when the familiar glint of metal in the bartender's hand rose up as he took aim at the closest outlaw to him, still staring out into the distance beyond the town. Sarver conceitedly thought the man would be too distracted to even get his tattooed hand over to his hip to unholster his gun in time.

_No_. Andy's mouth went dry. _Please, no._

***

Well, now _this_ was a better view.

Kyle felt rather proud of himself for his decision to move from where David had ordered him to stay; this was a much better vantage point, hidden behind one of the buildings to the side of the bank, and the Kings would never know that he had snuck from his position to get a closer look. He patted Gangles's neck out of excitement, quickly giving the horse a silent compliment for not making a sound since they arrived at this new spot. He suspected the other horses, far more seasoned at being instruments of the getaway than his dear Gangles, had more experience with staying quiet.

Nearly eye-level and barely one hundred feet from the bank's facade, Kyle grinned to himself as he watched the three men run through the gaping hole they had made in the building's shoddy entrance, their loot in hand and their guns in tow. It was just like the newspapers described, like reading a gunslinger dime novel but this was real, this was right in front of him, and he was about to be a part of it.

David's eyes were trained on the horizon, back to the entrance of the canyon where he had instructed Kyle to remain with the horses; Kyle's hopes were dashed, his high spirits sunk into his boots as he watched the frown cross over the outlaw's face. Perhaps he should have stayed where he was told; he had already determined it wasn't a good idea to question or undermine the decisions of the Kings's leader. For all he knew, Kyle might have just blown his chance at winning over the rest of the Kings; hell, he might have even angered David enough to retract his faith in the kid. A deep pit formed in his stomach at the thought; he prayed he hadn't ruined his chances of becoming a true member of the Kings for just one quick glance at a real bank robbery.

But there was something else that caught Kyle's eye, the movement of a body that was not supposed to be there, that should have been accounted for at the wedding across town. The other men concentrated on the horizon line, searching for the greenhorn kid and the horses that should have been riding down the canyon, and didn't notice the glint of metal in the stranger's hand as he raised it towards them, aiming for Neal.

Kyle's eyes widened, watching as the heavyset man took aim, knowing the Kings were in danger but not having a clue how to stop it. What could a ranch hand with barely any experience in even accomplishing that do to save a legendary outlaw gang? The sinking feeling in his stomach turned to steel as his hands tightened on Gangles's reins, the leather digging deep into his palms.

That's when it struck him. _The horses._

Without a second thought, Kyle kicked his heels against Gangles's sides, digging the spurs in and promising to apologize to the kind horse later. Rearing up with a great whinny, the horse broke into a gallop away from their hiding place, a dead run towards the bank and towards the doomed outlaws. Kyle could hear the rapid, dull thuds of more hooves than Gangles's four quickly following into step; the Kings's horses, already accustomed to letting Kyle take the lead, followed suit and ran along with the young rider to whatever end he desired. As to what that entailed, Kyle had no earthly idea; he just knew he had to stop whatever danger was about to befall the Kings, and he couldn't very well do that by standing still.

In a blur of desert dust, animal muscle and pure power, the horses blazed through the town at Kyle's beckoning, quickly advancing on Sarver and startling him out of his plans. He turned quickly to see what the sudden commotion was and immediately regretted it: four horses, three of which were riderless, came galloping towards him with a ferocity and intent never seen in Fox Canyon before. The mighty animals strode past him on the main avenue, their hooves clipping so close to his boots it caused him to lose his balance, his drunken body pitching backwards and he fell, arms windmilling futily, his head making contact with the hard-packed ground and rendering him unconscious.

They rode on past the bank, Kyle's blind determination and drive giving way to the more automatic, instinctual movements of his horse, allowing his body not to guide and control the animal but to work along with its boundless energy and power. A sharp pull of the reins on his right side swerved Gangles to the right, spitting up dust and pebbles in his wake as they turned, forming an arc in the center of town with the precision of a barrel racer without losing any of his momentum. Racing back to the edge of town with the other horses quickly following suit, Kyle returned to the bank, the wind and dust kicked into his clothes and hair, adrenaline coursing through every vein of his body, blood pumping in his ears.

_This_ was the excitement he had hoped to find in the open West, with the Kings; _this_ was the action and the life that he craved.

Skidding to a halt in front of the three outlaws, Kyle had barely enough time to take in a fresh gulp of breath before they reached out to their horses, regaining control. The disappointed look on David's face flashed in Kyle's memory; he hoped now that he had delivered the horses back to their owners, David would no longer be angry.

But that disapproving frown was nowhere to be found on David's face as Kyle approached, a bright, beaming smile replacing it, like the one that graced the outlaw's face when evaluating the caring work Kyle had done with the Kings's horses. He took Sugarfoot's reins, giving the mare an affectionate pat on the neck, her appearance with the young man so welcome he felt he could kiss her.

"Took you long enough," was his greeting to Kyle as he quickly hoisted himself into the saddle.

Joey had been staring blankly at the fallen man when Kyle had made the turn, shocked that all three men had been so preoccupied they hadn't noticed the bartender until Kyle's stampede knocked him off his feet. Neal had already drawn his gun at the first sound of hoofsteps and the cracking of Kyle's reins against Gangles's hide, holding it now on Sarver in case he regained consciousness, his readiness overcompensating for their previous misstep. If a bumbling, drunken mess of a man like Michael Sarver had been able to get one over on one of the most notorious outlaw gangs of the West, it would have been downright humiliating.

With a swift command from David to his horse, the four men were off like a shot, speeding past the bank and leaving the sleepy wooden buildings and humble people of Fox Canyon behind in their trail of dust. Kyle wanted to look back, wanted to imprint on his memory the sensation of escaping at top speed from a bank robbery, but he worried that if he turned his head it would be met with angry fire from a quickly-forming mob; better to keep his eyes on the plain in front of him, he thought, and direct Gangles to where they were headed instead of taking that risk.

Later, Kyle discovered from Andy that there was no angry mob, no formation of a vigilante group intent on bringing the Kings to their knees. The wedding quickly migrated to the other end of town once the commotion of the escape had been heard, but there were no witnesses to the direction in which the outlaws escaped. The newly-married sheriff wasn't planning to risk his life or those of his deputies to seek justice for the sniveling bank owner, who vowed to return to the civilized East once he found his voice, or for the bartender, who had been no help in interrogation when he awoke, only humbly asking if he had missed something.

They stopped a straight hour or so after pushing their horses at a dead gallop, relinquishing their usual desire for stealth over the need to get as many miles in between them and Fox Canyon as possible. The one downside to Kyle's heroic stampede was the strain it put on the horses to continue at such a run without gradually gaining the speed; Gangles was never used to racing for his and Kyle's life and it took him nearly an hour for his restless breaths to come in steadily and return to normal. Kyle, who was also not accustomed to racing for his life, required only a few minutes for his heart to stop thundering in his ears once they slowed, but his mind kept racing ahead, his thoughts an excited, jumbled mess.

It took a slap on the back to knock him back into his senses, to remind himself that he was still breathing, still all parts whole, and had just pulled off the riskiest escape of his life--perhaps even riskier than pleading with the Kings to join two nights ago.

"Hot damn!" Joey's horse cantered over to Kyle, Gilbert letting out a snort and a celebratory swing of his head as his owner's palm made contact with Kyle's back, forcing a weary laugh from the young man. "Can you ride, kid!"

"Like a fuckin' animal," said another voice happily, and Kyle turned to see Neal flanking his other side, contributing a thankful nod and, to Kyle's amazement, an actual smile. It was the first time Neal had shown any emotion short of violent hostility towards Kyle, and the kid had earned it in spades; there were very few ways to win over the Dr. once he had made his mind up, but saving his life was certainly one of them. Kyle had been sure that he would never gain acceptance from Neal Tiemann, who only this morning considered the young man's efforts not worth the Kings's time; he was sure his denial by Neal, and by Andy, would ultimately seal his fate with the outlaw gang, that he would never truly become one of them. Perhaps when David had said Kyle was to prove himself competent and worthy, he was considering a much larger scale than cleaning up camp and saddling horses.

Now, Kyle thought as he beamed back at Neal, no longer able to control his giddy, satisfied smile, he really did have a chance at becoming a King.

David urged the four of them on, traveling slowly now and with care, camouflaging their tracks and making sure Fox Canyon's lawmen were not on their trail. Kyle could never tell how David noticed anything in that desert, how he could look past the heat and his own weariness to look out into the distance and search with a scout's eyes for any movements more threatening than a buzzard's shadow. It was hours before they stopped to establish camp for the night, the sun having made its journey from one end of the sky to the other, the Kings's ever-present and cruel guardian on their flight. They only stopped on Kyle's request, reminding David that he was working the horses in a harsh, unyielding heat, and that they would need to rest with a good draught of water if he didn't expect them to crumple beneath the outlaws' legs and die. Kyle also wanted to point out that he himself was exhausted and needed water and rest if he expected not to die, but he felt that, despite his newfound popularity among the Kings, it would be less of a compelling argument. 

"Hey, Kid."

Kyle was leading the horses back from a leisurely walk to a desert stream the Kings had passed on their journey earlier in the day, a tributary that served as little more than a ditch for algae and desert flowers, but did its job well in rehydrating the horses. He had just been thinking what a pity it had been there wasn't enough water in the stream to wade in, he could have used a dip to wash off the settled dust he had kicked up in his rescue, when David approached him, the first time the leader of the Kings spoke to him since they left Fox Canyon.

He waited for the reprimand, a stern tone and disappointed expression like he received before the heist. He expected to hear David's even and expressionless voice, one Kyle was quickly determining was a tone he didn't want to get used to, reminding him how his hot-headed rush into the town didn't negate the fact that he had disobeyed David's direct orders to stay away from the canyon. Kyle prepared himself for the saddened yet resolute decision of David's that, while he was a good kid, they just couldn't take him on as a liability, and he'd have to find his outlaw adventure in the great West somewhere else.

But he received nothing of the sort: Kyle was quite surprised to see the calm, almost relieved expression on David's face greeting him. It was a look of gratitude: yes, Kyle had disobeyed him, and had things gone according to plan, it could have caused them vital seconds in retrieving their horses and getting out of town safely. But the brutal truth of it, as was the truth of many of their heists as of late, was that the robbery had not gone to plan, and though unbeknown to Kyle, his desire to get up close and personal with a bank robbery probably saved their lives. Kyle wasn't in danger of being thrown out of the Kings; honestly, David would be foolish to let him go.

"You did good today, Kyle," he said, the simple compliment and the use of his real name--the first time David Cook had called him something other than "kid"--hitting home.

Kyle's grin was brighter than it ever had been, the approval of the outlaw meaning more than his thankless years at the ranch, more than the surge of will that brought him out to the desert, following the Kings's trail; more than anything. With a quick nod of appreciation, David left Kyle to the rest of his duties around camp, eager to pore through the purloined sacks of gold and cash and determine if the spoils of this heist justified the hassle. The exact words were never spoken between them, but it was enough; Kyle had earned his place with the other four men, not with the skills he delivered, but with his instincts and the will to work courageously, and dangerously, in order to keep the Kings alive.

The one value David cherished above everything--cash, gold, all the riches the West had to offer them--was loyalty, and he expressed that in every action, every thought, down to the one rule of the Kings he upheld above all others: never leave a man behind.

"I think we're gonna do just fine here, Gangles," Kyle said, patting his horse's flank and getting an affectionate nuzzle in return.

***

Neal hated the waiting.

It wasn't his lack of patience that always bothered him; he had heard the old adage that patience was a virtue, knew when and where to hold his breath and expect something to come of it. He was adept at hunting particularly for this skill: when their stockpiles ran low and there were no trading posts for days, and all the other Kings routinely gave up on finding anything to shoot, Neal waited for the right moments, studying the landscape carefully until a coney or prairie chicken crossed his path. It didn't hurt at all, either, that he could shoot the flame off a cigarette from five hundred feet, but that seemed to be a skill that served Neal well in a number of different fields.

No, Neal thought as he paced in the moonlit dark, taking the routine first watch for the camp while Joey, David, and the kid celebrated a successful heist with sleep; it was the _stillness_ of it all that killed him. Neal Tiemann was a man of action, a man who forgave the moments of calm in his life so long as they led to a dynamic conclusion; he could lie still all day so long as it guaranteed a fresh-caught morsel for dinner, could ride from one end of the desert to the other if the reward at the end of the journey was to his taste. He tolerated planning each heist because he knew it was a necessary evil, a pathway to the actual robbery the Kings must walk down to find its end. And hell, some things didn't even need an end to be worth his while; no one would have to convince him to travel the country, aimless and free, with no mind to get anywhere in particular so long as the gettin' was good.

But the nights after a heist were the worst: the action cooled and the bounty collected, the getaway faced without a flaw, all the preparation and planning for three minutes of exhilaration, and it was all over. There was no next town, no further plans to placate him, not yet; the Kings still had to wait for Andy to return, the lurker among them that remained in Fox Canyon when the others dramatically blew out of town. To keep his guise as a lone traveler, his identity far from that of the outlaws, Andy always stayed in a town until fears and suspicions died down, keeping an attentive eye out for rumors and whispers he could bend to the Kings's advantage in the future. There would be no point in forcing Andy to find a moving target; once the Kings escaped a respectable distance, they tucked in for the wait, each man knowing that, while it could take more than one day of a town's panic to allow Andy to slip away and back to camp, eventually he always returned.

The energy from the heist was still simmering in Neal's veins, his adrenaline tapped with no place to go. There was more than one thing he hated about the waiting.

He turned on his heel when his boots hit the large boulder a ways from camp, marking the border of his nighttime patrol; guarding the camp at night was always a quiet endeavor, hardly a sound out in the vast West save for a coyote's wail, or the majestic sound of a desert owl's wings cutting through the air as she swooped down for her prey. Even this made Neal restless as he watched the black horizon, circling the lightless camp and using only the moonlight and his own keen eyesight to catch sight of any different kinds of predators than owls.

But when he turned, facing the far end of that boulder, he knew there was still one person that could get past his remarkable vision.

"That didn't take long," he noted, a smile curving onto his face and an electric kind of energy building in his fingers quite different from the restlessness he had been feeling a moment ago. Andy just smirked, leaning casually against the boulder, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his pants, observing; doing what he did best. Neal had no idea when the younger man arrived, didn't hear the sound of Vera's hooves or even of the horse breathing, but he had the feeling Andy had been watching him for a while.

"They were kinda busy," he deadpanned, keeping their voices low. In Andy's mind the time he spent in Fox Canyon couldn't have been short enough; he had seen a drunken Sarver lift his gun and aim at the Kings, aim at Neal, and he couldn't do anything about it without revealing himself to the town. Keeping himself an aloof, unknowing stranger in town while his head buzzed with the worry, thundered with terrible thoughts of what could have been had that headstrong kid, Kyle, not taken the reins. He left a little hastily but no one paid him any mind, half the town too busy focusing on the robbery and the other half occupied with that morning's wedding. "Heard their bank got robbed this morning. Crazy stuff."

A coyote howled in the distance, alone and mournful, a call to its missing pack. "You know," Neal said, kicking pebbles in the dust as he stepped closer. "You never show up when it's Joey or Dave's turn to take watch."

The glint in Andy's eyes was but a brief flash, but to Neal it was unmistakable; there was very little about Andy Skib the sharpshooter did not notice. "That's because Joey and Dave don't welcome me back like _this_ ," he said, closing the gap between them and pulling Neal in for a kiss.

***

Maybe it had been the wind, blowing like a teasing child in his ear, or maybe it had just been the excitement of the day's events still pumping through his blood, forging him into a whole new man, but for the damn life of him Kyle couldn't sleep.

He was sure he had watch duty any time now, David easily slipping in a rotation for him into their schedule after Neal, sealing his fate as the newest member of the Kings. David assured him that the two-hour shifts were never eventful and merely an exercise in losing sleep, but Joey reminded him of that one time the Dr. had shot a stalking lawman in complete darkness and an instance where David caught a bumbling bounty hunter attempting to hide his rustling in the prairie grass as a rabbit. It did nothing to allay Kyle's fears and excitement over the watch. He couldn't successfully run a stampede of horses at every threat the Kings faced.

But if he just kept his eyes and ears open to the night, David advised, he'd get the hang of it soon enough, especially on nights when the moon was looming large and undisturbed overhead, making their jobs a bit easier. Kyle was cautious but the prospect of proving himself to the Kings once again, showing that his dramatic rescue and escape wasn't just a fluke, was in the forefront of his mind. He tossed restlessly for two hours, his very bones knowing their serious task and refusing to let him rest because of it. Finally he could keep up the pretense no longer, standing up and batting the weariness out of his chest. It had been a long, exhilarating day, but his body simply wasn't ready to let it be over yet.

David had instructed him not to relieve Neal of his watch duties, that if the kid insisted on the earliest guard time the others would allow him, he had to wait for the Dr. to come to him. Kyle believed this rule David relayed to him was only to protect the young man from the brooding irritation he had seen in Neal the previous day, the cold silence that made Kyle keep his distance before the heist. That seemed to have dissipated almost entirely since that morning, the daring escape in Fox Canyon thawing Neal's frosty reception of the young greenhorn and reconsidering that he may not have been as green as he looked. He had even agreed to show Kyle a few of the basics in shooting, so he would not be forced to cause a stampede every time he needed to wriggle his way out of trouble. Perhaps David was being overly cautious about Neal; he didn't seem to have much of a problem with Kyle now at all.

Concluding that the leader of the Kings was merely overreacting, Kyle set out to the edge of their encampment, confident that relieving Neal early wasn't going to bring the sharpshooter's ire against him. On the contrary, perhaps this would give them extra time to talk, allow Kyle to form stronger bonds with the Kings based on friendliness and partnership rather than pure practicality.

When he reached the end of the camp, a sudden noise caused him to freeze in his tracks. He hadn't been paying close attention to the dim sights and sounds around him, focusing his attentions more on finding Neal in the darkness, and only now when he could tell whatever was making noises were close upon him did he notice. It could have been some harmless night animal, scurrying back to its home after scrounging around their camp for scraps; or, Kyle thought with a chill, it could have been a lawman from Fox Canyon or any one of the towns the Kings had hit throughout the West, following their trail since the morning and waiting for the right moment to strike. Perhaps the reason he hadn't met with Neal yet on his path around the camp was that the Dr. had already encountered this threat--or worse.

Kyle wasn't sure at all if he was ready for this level of action in his life as an outlaw, but he supposed he had to gather the courage one of these days. His hands fell to his hips, hands clasping onto the handles of his twin pistols, palms already wet with nervous sweat. The noises were getting louder now, closer as he inched towards the large boulder on the edge of camp, the only place in the desolate horizon an intruder could hide. When he turned the corner, guts mustered and ready as he'd ever be in his young life, he was greeted with a sight that was very much _not_ the ruthless, vengeance-fueled lawman he had concocted in his head.

He had certainly found Neal, all right, but not in a way Kyle ever imagined in his life he would find him, nor in such a position. The waxing moon's light shone down on two figures, illuminating the arch of Neal's back and the thin sheen of sweat that ran along his frame. Tattooed arms with taut, working muscles braced himself against the boulder, one arm shooting out against the rock to give him leverage while the other gripped roughly onto Andy's hip in front of him, fingers digging into the skin deep enough to bruise. They coupled close together, Andy's back pressed close against Neal's chest, their bodies moving hard as one and the dim moonlight barely delineating where one man ended and the other began. Neal was thrusting up against Andy's backside, _into_ him, as he buried his head in the crook of Andy's neck, mouth working shallow little bites into the skin that Andy's black shirt collar would hide the next morning. Andy threw his head back, shaggy hair shielding his eyes from view as Neal pushed himself in deeper, one arm reaching back to thread into the tangle of hair at the base of Neal's neck while the other pushed his body off the surface of the boulder, their hands pressing together, their fingers entwining.

It was then that Kyle discovered the source of the noise, and realized why David directly told him not to go wandering at camp before Neal's shift was fully over.

His hands never worked so fast at returning his pistols to their holsters; his feet never moved so quickly back to his own bedroll, slamming himself back down with urgency, and his mind never worked so hard to erase the images he had seen of the two outlaws bathed in moonlight, engrossed in each other, from the depths of his memory.

***

Andy knew they had to keep quiet. He wasn't a fool and they weren't amateurs at this; they were in the open desert, with lawmen and bounty hunters possibly on their tracks that very moment. They had to keep quiet.

But that was a task easier said than done when Neal's hands were all over him, his grip as strong as a steel safe on Andy's skin, Neal's mouth pressing heated kisses against the nape of his neck, body hot and willing all around him. Neal's cock pressed deep inside him, their bodies fitting together like a well-worn glove, like they had been created for this, molded for the express purpose of coming together exactly like this. If Andy's mind had the wherewithal to think at the moment, he would think that they would have learned how to do this perfectly silent over the years; no such luck.

There was absolutely nothing like the thrill and excitement of pulling off a heist, of bursting out of a town after looting the place, escaping by just the hairs on your horse's backside, the adrenaline rush buzzing in your ears and pounding in your heart. But when the dust underneath a mount's hooves settled and it was easy to call a victory by outlaw, the energy did not escape along with the threat; it buzzed in your very bones, keeping you awake, agitated, until _something_ had to be done to blow off that steam.

Neal buried his face into the crook of Andy's neck, muffling a groan that turned into the airiest of sighs carried upon the desert wind, and Andy felt Neal's heart beat faster, blood pumping that energy through his veins from deep in his chest, pressed so close against Andy's back he could swear their heartbeats were one. And they had found a way to relieve that energy for years, ever since their first dimestore holdup left them close to jumping with exhilaration. There was nothing like the passion and excitement over a successful heist, but, Andy argued as he felt the vibrations of Neal's moan tremble through his body, there was also nothing quite like _this_.

A momentary lull in their movements, a shifting of weight from one foot to the other, and the angles had suddenly changed, Neal's cock working deeper, brushing against a place within Andy that made him feel each thrust in every inch of his body, a sharp, glorious sensation that reverberated in the tips of his fingers, down to his toes. He arched his back, pressing himself ever closer to Neal's body, desperate for more touch, more contact. As his head rolled back and his eyes along with it their need to be silent emptied from his mind, an uncontrolled moan escaping his mouth, lifting up into the night. He tried to curb himself, tried to hold back his pleasure before it passed his lips but the attempt was futile; he could never hold himself back when he was with Neal, not like this.

Andy's arm shot out in front of him to regain balance, all the blood drained from his brain and down to his own cock, hard and grossly untended, causing him to feel lightheaded and faint. He expected his hand to come into contact with hard, unyielding rock, the large boulder the two outlaws were using for cover against dusty winds and to give them and their fellow Kings a shred of privacy, of perceived secrecy behind this stone veil. But his palm met with flesh, the skin and ink as familiar to Andy's touch as breathing by now, and almost at once Neal's fingers curled around his, holding him, joining each other in more ways than one.

"Oh, God," he whispered, his face hot and vision useless to him to see nothing but billowing heat and stars, a tiny explosion of color beneath his eyelids every time Neal thrust in deep. Andy's other arm laid limp at his side, not knowing whether to grip in front of him or behind, to pull his own neglected cock into his fist and bring his body the pleasure it craved or reach for Neal, any part of Neal, to bring him closer. A rough growl in Andy's ear and the graze of twin silver piercings along the tender flesh there made up his mind for him; he gasped, hips rolling on instinct into Neal, and his arm reached up over his head and behind, finding purchase in the blond hairs along the nape of Neal's neck. He tangled his fingers in the thick hair, slicked down with sweat, sharp tugs accented with the rolls of his hips garnering another, less controlled growl from the older man, sounding desperately close to his name on Neal's lips.

That whisper, those words from Andy's open mouth--a deliciously witty, irresistible mouth, a mouth Neal had to remind himself he couldn't claim any hour of the day he felt the desire--stirred the devilish streak in Neal, stoking the fires of the man who loved the thrill of a challenge. He felt Andy's hair brush against his face as the younger man's head rolled back, neck exposed and vulnerable to Neal's mouth, his teeth, begging to be marked in all the places he knew Andy loved. A languorous lick up the slopes of Andy's throat with the tip of his tongue brought out a sigh; an unexpected, ravenous bite against the tender flesh, the silver rings threaded in Neal's lower lip making marks of their own as he sucked caused Andy to shiver, his eyes closed, his teeth clenched against a throaty moan.

The sound alone caused Neal's own cock to throb, the coiling tension in his gut mounting ever since he slid into Andy, the man's body like a return home to Neal, like every time. He was close but he'd never admit it; never admit just the expression on Andy's face, outlined in the dim moonlight, a mix of rapture and danger, of familiar sensuality, could send him so close to the edge alone. His arm bracing himself against the boulder locked at the elbow, fingers holding tight against Andy's as he leaned them both forward, his cock buried into Andy's body as he increased his pace. He was panting, breath hot and wet against Andy's neck, but their breathing was drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against skin, the sweat rolling down their bodies, soaking themselves as if caught in a deluge.

Andy could barely take it anymore, his entire body trembling, aching for release. The hand securing his hip, Neal's hand, shifted and slid along the slick planes of Andy's flesh, running a ragged trail underneath the fabric of his shirt along his stomach, up his chest and then swooping down again, following the path of dark, wiry hairs along Andy's body down to his crotch, finally paying the younger man's cock some attention. It was all it took, a firm grip along the shaft, stroking to the rhythm of Neal's thrusts and Andy was gone, mouth choking on all of the words he wanted to scream out as he spilled onto Neal's hand. His eyes screwed so tightly shut he could have gone blind from the effort and never noticed or cared; he felt the shudders course through his body in waves, his cock jerking in Neal's sure grasp. All the world and everything in it--revenge-seeking lawmen, frontier banks waiting to be pillaged, even their fellow Kings--ceased to matter at that moment, Andy's mind a land full of sensation and emotion, focusing on the pleasures only Neal was able to give.

Fighting back moans of his own and biting down on his lip hard enough to pierce through the skin, Neal felt Andy's orgasm in more ways than one: the hot, slick spurts of cum coating his fingers, the walls of Andy's body tightening around Neal's cock, the vise-like grip of their entwined hands feeling desperate, like Andy would fall off the edge of Earth if he didn't hold on. Neal felt himself reach the point of no return, disregarding any pretense of silence and moaning Andy's name into his shoulder blades as he came, emptying himself into Andy in staggered, uneasy thrusts. All of this sensation, this dizzying, rolling high that made the rest of the Earth disappear but for this moment and these two...Neal wouldn't have traded it for all the thrill of robbing Fort Knox.

They lingered like this for as long as their limbs could maintain them, holding onto the aftershocks and reserving them in their memory, taking inventory of every touch, every sensation. The only sound now on the Nevada plain was their own breaths falling heavily into the air, pulses trying to return to normal while refusing to relinquish that which caused it to race in the first place. Neal felt Andy's body shiver against him but he couldn't tell if it was from the cold desert winds they were suddenly aware of once again, or a reaction to Neal pulling out of him, limp yet sated, weary and oversensitive like the rest of him. He pulled his arm around Andy's waist, keeping their bodies flush together, his hand sticky against Andy's stomach but neither man could give a damn.

The hand that had held onto Neal's hair throughout their encounter slackened, trailing down through sheer exhaustion to his cheek, caressing the skin there. Andy had a habit of running his fingers through hair during sex, typically Neal's hair, and enjoyed the feeling when it was reciprocated; Neal had to make sure the younger man didn't make him bald one of these days. Neal unconsciously hummed in satisfaction, brushing kisses against Andy's flesh much gentler than before, the urgency of their coupling draining from their bodies, their energy dutifully and thoroughly spent.

It only took three kisses to his neck, tender and mild, missing the lust-driven fierceness they held before, for Andy to twist himself around, resituating his lanky frame in Neal's arms, and kiss the other man properly. The difference in their natures before and after sex were as different as night and day, the rough, desperate touches and grasps giving way after their release to softer sides, gentle kisses and caresses neither man could or would ever explain. Their intimacy went far beyond that of mere partners in crime, beyond even lovers, to a dependence and trust upon each other that neither Neal or Andy could admit, even to themselves. Andy's arms went around Neal's shoulders lazily, easing into the kiss, never thinking about what these kisses or more could mean in his heart but focusing instead on the here and now, the way Neal's arms around him and Neal's lips upon his felt: familiar and safe.

Both men knew it wasn't prudent for them to stand around, pants pooled to their ankles, basking in their afterglow, but it was difficult to resist that temptation, the desert winds cooling their bodies save for the skin that touched one another, refusing to fully separate. Neal pulled away from the kiss and garnered a protesting moan from the back of Andy's throat but couldn't bring himself to let go of him yet, his tattooed arms running smoothly up and down the planes of Andy's back, fingertips pressing into shoulder blades at the top, thumbs dipping tantalyzingly into the cleft of his ass at the bottom. There was something deep and eternal in Andy's eyes, a grand, dark brown as mysterious as his position with the Kings, and though Neal had seen those eyes for eight years now--seen their laughter and their tears, their subtle smiles and their mad, red-hot anger--he didn't think he could ever see enough of them.

With a hint of a smirk on his lips and a spark in his own eyes, Neal reached up to Andy's face, dragging a thumb along the younger man's cheek as he had done the night before, with much more levity between them and more people watching than now. It was still a rather clean shave, the barber at Fox Canyon's skill shining through, but just the hints of stubble pricked at Neal's finger, their sharpness unseen in the moonlight. Andy scrunched up his nose once again, feigning displeasure, the smile upon his lips giving away his true feelings, and the two men shared a hushed laugh between them as the waxing Nevada moon loomed over them.


	5. Chapter 5

_Tired, lonely buildings made of timber and sweat, raised not yet fifteen years before but already worn and old from Texas winds and unexpected hardships. A supply store, a blacksmith's, a third-rate saloon where the whores were probably more weather-worn than the buildings themselves and just as interchangeable. A dingy watering hole for traveling cattle and their herders alike, making the long grazing migration from the barren lands of South Texas north to the slaughterhouses of St. Louis. And a bank, standing tall at the center of the fledgling town, a beacon and symbol of commerce and community, a giant structure standing tall atop the mountain-less plain._

_Burleson was just like every other town, identical to every shack and shanty erected from here to the Pacific, and David Cook didn't expect anything more._

_They had rode into town for a bit of rest and regeneration, from lands north of Texas where they feared some wayward traveler would recognize Andy's face or a lone Creek warrior scrounging for prey outside of the reservation lands would identify the inked markings on Neal as one of their own. David's own likeness was growing more infamous as word spread through the plains of the trio's exploits, of the rash and daring robberies forming a trail from Missouri, but he was still relatively safe, none of the men causing enough of a stir to truly be noticed unless they planned it just so. A tiny settlement erected more for the cattle ranchers and transients than for the townspeople themselves would never take notice of an extra three travelers, young men like themselves flowing in and out of Burleson like crisp water through its bordering streams._

_The Breakaway Saloon itself was what David aimed for, a late afternoon sun baking long shadows into the dust, making the building feel even more decrepit and unwelcoming, enhancing every flaw. It was unpleasant and small, with a simple design that revealed grimly there weren't many boarding rooms to be had, but it was all the shelter the three men would find for miles, the next town worth even a speck on a map being Dallas, in far too close quarters with lawmen than David felt comfortable with. Besides, it beat sleeping on the open plain, a vulnerable target for any and all men tracking down their trail; they had certainly gained a few more from the last bank they hit. David's back, sore from a relentless gallop in the saddle, didn't seem like it would ever get used to resting on the cold ground._

_Quickly dismounting and hitching Sugarfoot to a watering trough, David felt Neal and Andy's eyes on him as they followed suit. Andy gave him a quick nod as Neal jutted his chin inconspicuously at the bank across the dirt road avenue, indicating they were rethinking Burleson as a purely recreational visit. David wasn't quite up to the level of eerily accurate non-communication as the other two men were with each other, and he wondered if they had been conversing silently their entire ride into town. As close as the three had become traveling with each other the past year, there were a few other things between Neal and Andy that David was quite content not to share in._

_They could talk about it later, when the town slept and the three men could get a better scope of the bank, but for now, David just wanted to _relax_._

_Surprisingly to all three men, the interior of the saloon wasn't nearly as rundown as its facade so ominously advertised. A warm radiance emanated throughout the large front parlor thanks to tallow candles situated around the room, chasing away the shadows looming in the streets outside. The tables and chairs were intricately carved, with Spanish roses and suns decorating the wood and legs curling down into fierce eagles' talons; from the condition of the exterior David had not expected much in the way of furniture at all. The bar was fully stocked with glass bottles stacked neatly in rows, glittering in the candlelight and casting the room in flickering shades of yellow and amber. The bar, as well as the rest of the parlor, looked to be free of bullet holes entirely--a detail not lost on the three outlaws, who were oftentimes lucky if they entered a saloon and left before witnessing a fight end in pistols drawn and blood on the floor. David considered them double-lucky if they could leave without getting into one of those kinds of arguments._

_They had expected little more than a slophouse and came face to face with one of the most civilized saloons this side of the Rio Grande. Burleson just seemed to be full of surprises._

_But what David saw before him was far more surprising than any Hell in the West freezing over, more pleasant than a lifesaving oasis in the desert. She stood there brazenly, no holster around her hip but her confidence alone told him she needed no gun to keep her protected in this town. She wore pants and a tucked shirt like any man on the cattle drive, but the thick fabrics and leather did nothing to hide her feminine frame, breasts and hips curving like a river, and just as powerful. Her hair glimmered in the candlelight, a deep, rich color reminiscent of spiced honey that David couldn't decide was blond or brown, but he knew he'd like to spend a lifetime contemplating._

_Clear hazel eyes, intensified with a sense of daring, fell upon David's frame in the doorway, flashing intrigue and challenge where David only saw beauty. The talker and the charmer of the three men, David was never at a loss for words, always choosing carefully from a wide vocabulary and erring on the side of verbosity, but this woman had rendered him speechless, his ever-eloquent words flying out of his head. She was a vision without ever trying, a woman standing tall and unafraid at a bar, shooter of whiskey in her hand, dressed in men's clothes but exuding a femininity that was irresistibly alluring to David._

_He wanted to whisk her away from the deceiving town, carry her off to some unforeseen foreign land and treat her like a queen, let them both escape the life of the endless plain. He wanted to give her all the lines he used on saloon girls but knew all were too tarnished for her; he found his charm effective to a fault on others but he had a feeling she wouldn't settle for a pretty line and a smile. All he found himself able to do was give her a half-smile in recognition, his own civility overwhelming him, and tip his hat in the beautiful woman's direction._

_David's heart felt like it wanted to ride for the moon, lighter than he had felt in years, when she returned his gaze with a nod of her head and a genuine smile of her own._

***

David perched himself atop a precarious outcropping of rock, overlooking a sea of prairie grass below him, waving through the breeze like a massive crowd of thousands swaying their arms to and fro, contemplating time.

It could have been five years, four months by now, or perhaps it was seven; in David's line of work the days and months melted into one another, baked and steamed by the desert sun, and he always lost track of time here. He knew it had been winter in Texas back then, but that hadn't meant much to him in the days that were as scalding as a Missouri July. They had never seen snow down in Texas, not as they rested their aching limbs in Burleson years ago nor as they left the tiny town in the distance. 

_Pity_ , David thought, eyes narrowing as he looked out onto the horizon. _Her hair would have looked so beautiful when sprinkled with snow._

The warm breeze whipped up into a fiercer, colder wind, biting against David's skin and rustling the newly acquired letter resting in his hands. There would be a storm tonight, the air was already giving fair warning.

***

"What is he doing?"

Kyle should have never asked that question. He knew fairly well what David Cook was doing, as he had been doing all day: David Cook was sitting. He had situated himself atop a rocky hill, far away from the Kings's encampment but close enough to still be within range of a trained eye or the sound of alarm coming from the horses. It was what David had been doing, truthfully, ever since an old acquaintance of the outlaws arrived--a tall, Jewish man working odd jobs to finance his way to California, who had seemed to become David's personal Pony Express. He greeted each man with a solemn nod, the meeting not substantial enough to dismount from his horse, and had complained to David that he wasn't Wells Fargo before handing him a small, wrapped package and a letter. The letter now remained in David's hands, the package delicately unwrapped in his lap; and there, he sat.

He should have also never asked that question because he had asked it before, and received a surly yet acceptable answer from Neal. The look on the older man's face told Kyle he wasn't pleased with hearing the same question twice.

"I already told you," he said testily, reminding Kyle of the clipped answer he had received from the blond before, that the leader of the Kings was taking some personal time, something every one of the outlaws needed once in a while. Neal felt at this moment he could use some of that same personal time away from Kyle Peek. "Now are you going to start paying attention or am I gonna have to shoot you to show you how it's done?"

"Neal," a voice shouted from behind them, their voices carrying on the wind back to camp from their position within a shallow valley, perfect for the shooting practice Kyle so desperately needed. Both men turned around to see Andy at the head of the valley, his tone and expression full of annoyance, as if he had given this reprimand to the Dr. many times before. Kyle would put money on the idea that he had. "Give the kid a break. He's not hurting anyone with his questions."

While the thinly-veiled death threats still seemed to be a regular occurrence, Kyle had received the respect he so craved after his rescue in Fox Canyon, especially from the skeptic Andy and Neal. Once it was clear to the Kings that Kyle had saved their hides and had the courage and the fortitude to do it again if ever needed, he was welcomed into the fold, given a share of the profits from Hicks's bank, and promoted to lookout--so long as he tended the horses and cleaned up camp, and pulled his own weight within the gang. Andy had been particularly kind to Kyle recently, his stance on the young rancher changing considerably once he saw the kid's ability could equal his enthusiasm. He claimed it was because he knew how it felt to be the youngest of the Kings, a boy among men; but with the way Michael Sarver had raised his gun towards Neal back in Fox Canyon and the split second chance Kyle took between a perfect escape and a burial, Kyle believed Andy's true reasons were something different completely.

Regardless of Andy's admonishment of the sharpshooter's attitude that day, Neal clenched his jaw and marched out of the valley, leaving a perplexed Kyle behind in his dust. "You teach him, then," he muttered as he passed Andy, his shooting lesson with the kid clearly over. He was the third King to attempt schooling Kyle in making the pistols at his sides more useful than mere decorations around his belt, and the third King to fail. Granted, this lesson ended before either man could send off a shot from their guns, but Neal didn't have to wait all day to determine a lost cause.

"Fine, maybe I will." Andy's tone was challenging but there was no bite to it; his retort was all in fun, glib and breezy as he tried to keep a stony expression but failed in the face of Neal.

" _Fine._ " Not even the brim of his hat, pulled low over his forehead to protect fair Irish skin, could hide the smile ghosting across Neal's features. He ducked his head low, his voice following as he qualified in Andy's ear. "I wasn't really gonna shoot him."

Andy tried to focus on the clearly lost young man still standing in the valley instead of the breath tickling the shell of his ear. "One can never be sure," he gave his parting words with a grin as he motioned for Kyle to join them back on the ridge. "Get your horse, Kid; we're heading east."

Once Kyle had joined his new tutor and both had saddled and mounted their horses, Andy took the travel time to explain his unorthodox methods. "You were distracted," he said, keeping Vera on a steady, strong trot, with Kyle and Gangles--who had been quite displeased with being saddled so suddenly in the middle of the day, and had nipped at Kyle's shoulder in protest--lagging slightly behind. "The other guys want you to just snap out of it, yell at you enough until you figure it out. But that's obviously not working and we've still got to teach you to shoot or you're no good to us. Can't have you staging a stampede whenever we need your help. So I figured, best take you away from distractions."

When they finally did reach their destination--a deep valley a few miles from camp, whose limestone walls swallowed the noises of the plains above it, isolating the outlaws and the sounds of their practice gunshots inside--Kyle marveled at the other man's foresight, and for the first time in the two months since the heist at Fox Canyon passed, he felt he might learn something. "Joey had tried to teach me, distractions and all," he noted as he dismounted and led the horses to safe tether inside the valley.

"Joey's a great guy," Andy was already examining his gun, noting he hadn't been maintaining it as well as he could have, with tiny specks of desert dust gathering in the mechanical crevices of his revolver from a past windstorm in Nevada, or New Mexico, or wherever the hell they had just been. The lands they had traveled meshed together now along with the years, an endless run of territory they could never hope to conquer. "Tough as nails." Andy smiled and Kyle knew there was a "but" coming out of this conversation. "Can't aim a damn pistol if his life depended on it, and it _has_. There's a reason his favored weapon's a shotgun: the buckshot from that thing'd hit anything if you're close enough. Hell, I'm surprised he hasn't shot one of  us full of holes yet."

He hadn't said any of this out of malice or jest; Kyle had learned how to decipher Andy Skib's dry wit in his short time with the Kings, and he knew this was to be taken quite seriously. He hearkened back to Joey's failed attempts at teaching him how to shoot, the older man's genial and lighthearted nature translating into a flustered absent-mindedness with one of Kyle's pistols in hand. Kyle wondered grimly if that was to be his own fate if he couldn't learn from the last of the Kings, that he would be stripped of his pistols and relegated to shotgun duty, trusted only with aiming at the broad side of a bank.

But this didn't account for Kyle's other failures in gun handling instruction. "David and the Dr. can aim," he reminded Andy, who gave a wide smile and shook his head at Kyle's inability, even after two months of being fully accepted into the outlaw gang, to always call Neal by his given name.

"That they can." Andy vividly remembered target practice and accuracy contests between David and Neal early on in the Kings's partnership, neither man backing down until the sky fell too dark to see neither target nor bullet. Neal always ended with the highest accuracy rating, as all three men knew would be the outcome, but it never kept David from trying or noticing the techniques he needed to perfect. Andy always stayed out of those competitions, humbly admitting his position as the third best shot in that close-knit group of three, and reminding them both that there was more to his skills than hitting a tin can at seventy feet. "They're damn good at it, too; some would say Neal's the best shot in the country, if enough people actually lived to tell about it."

Considering the number of times Neal had threatened to shoot Kyle, including that morning alone, this gave the young man no comfort. "Then why can't I pick that up?" he asked sheepishly, feeling like a child again in the minuscule red Sunday schoolhouse of his youth, shamed once again for forgetting the names of the Apostles.

This time there was sympathy in Andy's smile; he had certainly been there before. "Dave's a natural shot," he explained. "Mastered a gun the minute he got one in his hand; Neal, too. They can do a lot of amazing things with a pistol." Andy squinted against the sun as he loaded up his revolver, positioning each bullet carefully into its cylinder. The cactus standing tall among patches of overgrown prairie grass on the far end of the valley would do nicely. "Problem is, Dave doesn't really get it when someone else can't pick it up as fast as he did. He expects you to know, like he knows. He gets frustrated, he gives up. It's not that you can't learn," he said with a shrug. "It's that Dave doesn't know how to teach you."

"And Neal?"

Andy rolled his eyes, trying hard not to laugh. "Neal just doesn't want to teach."

It was not lost on Kyle that the only member of the Kings of which Andy didn't speak of their marksmanship, was himself. While each man's goal was to never have to use their gun during a heist or have to test their speed and accuracy in a shootout to the death, Kyle knew how important it was to have the skills when you needed them. With a steady hand Andy raised an outstretched right arm to eye level, his revolver gripped firmly in his hand, hesitating only a moment to focus his aim before pulling the trigger. With a loud _pop_ and a spark of smoke pluming from the barrel, the bullet broke through the air to the other side of the valley, finding a quick and permanent home in the trunk of the cactus, dead-on center.

Kyle gaped at the shot, his eyes widening as his head turned from one of the bullet's points of call to the other, never expecting a demonstration such as that. Generally pleased with his performance, Andy lowered the gun, a quirk of his eyebrow the only indication of his satisfaction. His attentions only returned to Kyle when he heard the low whistle made by the young man.

"I didn't know you could do _that_ ," Kyle found himself saying before filtering himself, his awe escaping and amusing the other man. He had never seen Andy shoot before, and assumed from his permanent position away from the action of the Kings's bank robberies meant he was far from handy with a pistol; but this test of skill showed Kyle he was sorely mistaken. His style was subdued and rarely on display, but for sheer talent Andy's shot could rival even Neal's.

" _That,_ " Andy replied, feeling the happy hum in his bones once again from the vibration of shooting. "Took me a lot of practice." It had cost Andy years to perfect his own shot, far from the natural talent of David and Neal with a pistol, with a trail of shells and bullet gouges in cliff faces to prove his progress.

"How did you learn?" Kyle asked eagerly, no longer feeling as if he had been sidled with the last King willing to keep him around for more than target practice.

A slow, irrepressible smile spread on Andy's face as he inspected his gun once again, eying the cylinder and waiting for the revolver to cool. "Neal actually taught me," he said, quickly explaining himself once the expression of disbelief quickly washed over Kyle's face. Just because he didn't like to teach didn't mean he hadn't. "He wasn't keen on it at first, and he really wasn't good with patience, but I knew how to work it out of him." He hadn't spent eight years riding with the other man without picking up a few tricks; namely, figuring out quite quickly how to convince the sharpshooter that training him would be worthwhile.

Almost immediately Kyle knew there was no chance of him learning the methods to get Neal Tiemann to reveal his trade secrets with a pistol, not from the smile he doubted Andy even knew he was making or the shine in his eyes that told Kyle more than could be said in that valley with words. He remembered what he had seen the night of the Fox Canyon robbery, though he had wished and hoped and scrubbed at his head until it was sore to forget; he remembered in vivid detail the flesh he spied in the dim moonlight, the sounds of their breath entwined together like their fingers, their very bodies.

That was certainly a length Kyle would not go to for shooting lessons.

"Let's see your form." Andy started the lesson quickly, knowing they had little time before the setting sun dulled their eyesight to the details of the targets and the trails of their bullets through the sky. Kyle, who, for the first time felt rather silly for having two pistols by his side he didn't know how to use instead of one he could master, sheepishly held up one in his right hand and pointed the barrel in the vicinity of the cactus at the other end of the valley, doubting he'd even come close to hitting the natural limestone wall behind it, much less the plant itself.

Andy frowned, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he scrutinized Kyle, the greenhorn looking more ready to shuck corn than shoot a gun. "You're thinking too much," he concluded, and silently Kyle agreed. He was worrying too much about mimicking what he had seen before with the other Kings, emulating the casual way David would raise his gun or Neal would approach a target, imitating the fearlessness Andy had with taking that shot instead of forming his own. "The art behind gunslinging is to keep it natural: you can't be worrying about the mechanics of it if you're staring down a barrel. You've already got the instinct," he remarked, remembering Kyle's split decision to stampede the horses through Fox Canyon two months ago, a decision that saved the Kings's lives but one Kyle couldn't remember thinking about or making, just executing. "You just need the skill to back it up. That's what Neal always taught me."

The mention of the Dr.'s name again brought back those images in Kyle's mind, the intimacy between the two founding members of the Kings that he never should have nor wanted to see. Though he wished he would have never caught sight of what occurred after Fox Canyon, his curiosity was piqued by their history, how one outlaw with such a notorious, deadly past and one who wasn't supposed to even exist could grow to mean so much to one another. "So," Kyle chanced, figuring the unanswered questions about the shadow and the sharpshooter in his head were more distracting than anything to be found around camp. "You and Neal are...close?"

He tried to word his query as best he could, choosing each syllable carefully, wary not to sound too inquisitive or to let on that he saw too much, knew more than Andy or Neal had hoped to tell him. He was no wordsmith like David fancied himself, plotting the right synonyms in his head as he spoke, always the paradox of an eloquent outlaw; but he didn't stumble over words either, and he respected their power. Just as he asked he regretted it, ducking his head and allowing wisps of his hair to fall into his face, masking the blush of remorse on his cheeks.

But Andy didn't find the question to be an intrusion, nor did he notice Kyle's embarrassment over asking it; he had no reason to suspect Kyle knew anything more than what Joey had revealed about the Kings's history that first day he joined their ranks. "You could say so," he gave a wistful smile, his eyes no longer focusing on Kyle's form but on something inside his mind; memories, Kyle thought, and for a fleeting moment he envied them for having someone with whom to share such fond thoughts. "We've known each other eight years now; rode all over the West with Neal, making our mark. Before Joey--hell, before even Dave came around, it was just us." He laughed, thinking back on those times when they were so young, and so carefree; wondered how things would have changed if it had just been the two of them together all along.

The older man gave no indication about what Kyle had seen that one night, and the young man would push it no further; he would never be green enough not to know when to let sleeping dogs lie. "He came around...right when I needed him," Andy continued, his voice now adding to that faraway look in his eyes, dipping low and gentle without even noticing. "My life at the time wasn't...wasn't really me at all. Wasn't where I wanted my life to go."

"And this is?"

Kyle had heard the paradoxical responses from this kind of question from the other Kings: David, arguably the most vocal, produced a thick layer of apathy on the best of days when asked if he enjoyed the outlaw lifestyle, and a harsh vitriol or cold, detestable silence on the worst. The outlaw life was never meant to be for the long term, only for those who made their fortunes fast and effectively or the ones who flooded the frontier cemeteries with their bones. The reason the Kings remained alive was the same reason the life was slowly killing them: small, escapable heists in tiny towns gave them their small bankrolls and allowed them to live for another day, but the notoriety and infamy they gained with each robbery forced them into hiding, and the world saw them as outcasts or, even worse, dollar signs for bounties. Two months ago Kyle wanted more than anything in this life to be an outlaw, to experience that adventure and thrill he'd never find in a normal life; now, he realized a normal life was all that David Cook had ever wanted.

But the look on Andy Skib's face told him something quite different. Andy wasn't even looking at Kyle anymore, didn't give a damn about how he held his pistol; his thoughts were completely on something else, the peaceful smile on his face telling Kyle more than an answer in words could ever say. The way he wanted his life to go...in Andy's mind it wasn't about the outlaw life, of hiding from the rest of the world or no one ever knowing he even truly existed. He couldn't care less about the millions of nameless faces who saw him as just the same, people who didn't know who he was; he only cared about the ones who did.

 

_"You're gonna have to leave soon." Andy touched his fingers to the piano keys, the pads of his fingertips soft against the ivory, not even pressing down hard enough to make a sound. There would be time enough for his fingers to make noise in two hours, when his parents' guests arrived to listen and be entertained by their promoted prodigy, to fawn over the Skib's perfect little Tulsa homestead, their perfect little life, their perfect little son._

_He felt his presence before he saw it, a warmth beside him he never experienced for the fifteen years he had lived in his parents' shadows. A swift, tattooed hand descended upon the keys to Andy's left, mimicking the placement of his fingers in a lower, deeper octave. "They can kick me out when they want," Neal replied breezily, never caring nor fearing the wrath of Andy's family, pressing his fingers down to release an ominous minor chord into the parlor. If his parents had seen Neal Tiemann touching their prized grand piano, they would have done more than just kick him out of the house._

_"Wish I could leave with you." The suit they made him wear was stifling, the room to which he had been banished until his musical talents were needed even more so. He couldn't begin to tell Neal what a joy it was that he had snuck in, his tattoos a colorful distraction from the dull black and white keys before him, the black and white prison all around him. He didn't need to. "All these stupid people I don't care about, talking about me, whispering things...thinking that I'm important, or something, when they don't even know me." He sighed, Neal's minor chord still ringing in his ears. "Sometimes I wish I could just disappear from all this. Be a shadow." His last words were a whisper but he knew Neal could hear them. "No one would know who I am."_

_Silence. It took years for Andy to realize that Neal was waiting for Andy's gaze to rise from the piano keys to respond, for expressive brown eyes to lock with a dangerous, icy blue. " I'd know who you are," Neal responded quietly, taking his hands off of the keys._

 

Andy never really shook himself out of that memory, only worked around it, responding to Kyle without really thinking. The kettle was on, but the family went on vacation. "For now, it is," he answered; it wasn't the richest life, it wasn't the most glamorous like his life could have been, but it was his own, and that was what truly mattered.

That pregnant silence between them, Andy ignoring everything but the scenes in his mind, vivid as the day they occurred, grew awkward for Kyle, especially knowing what he knew. He still held his arm outstretched towards the far end of the valley, the muscles and tendons beginning to tremble from holding out the heavy pistol for so long; he feared he was getting a cramp. "David doesn't seem to think so," he quickly changed the subject from the other man and Neal, remembering in his mind where that conversation could lead. He could already tell, even if he had his eyes closed and ears stuffed with tumbleweeds, that the connection between the shadow and the sharpshooter was deeper than that of friends, even deeper than the lovers Kyle had seen the night of Fox Canyon. But he kept his mouth shut on the subject, not for his own modesty, but because he didn't believe Neal and Andy even realized what they had.

Shrugging nonchalantly, Andy didn't seem to be alarmed by Kyle's change in topic, or even noticed the greenhorn's lack of subtlety. "That's because David never wanted this life," he admitted, something the leader of the Kings himself had told Kyle on a few occasions, making sure to remind the young man that the life of the outlaw wasn't all thrilling, successful bank robberies and enjoying the spoils of a heist. "He had different reasons for how he came to be one of us. Good reasons, yes, but not lasting ones." The shift did seem to refocus Andy's attentions, however, and he frowned; not everything Kyle did had gone unnoticed. "You're gonna break your arm if you lock your elbow like that; the backfire from the shot wouldn't be padded by anything, and you're body's too rigid to take the shock. Didn't anyone teach you how to shoot?"

He instantly regretted the words because he knew no one had; Kyle looked sheepishly at the pistol in his hand, considering for the first time that it might be more trouble than it was worth. "Just relax. Get comfortable with the weight of the gun in your hand; you'll never know how long you'll have to aim it in a standoff."

Kyle did as he was instructed, believing that the other man was also employing the trick of changing the subject to end their talk on David Cook's reasons for becoming an outlaw--one of them. But to his surprise, once Andy decided Kyle's stance was satisfactory, he continued with the conversation. "Neal and I came West to look for adventure. There was nothing left for us back home; I guess you could say we were bored."

Later Kyle would learn there was more to it than that, that Neal--too white for the Indians and too Indian for the whites--had left an existence as an outcast and Andy escaped his worst fears of being his family's pawn for the rest of his days. Even at that moment Kyle hadn't believed him; no one risked their lives and became outlaws simply because they were _bored_. No one besides him, anyway. "We owned the plains, riding wherever we pleased, hitting general stores and the odd stagecoach along the way, really only taking whatever we'd need. We were all action, no purpose." He said it with a wistful nostalgia to his voice, as if he missed the days it had only been him and Neal and the open plain, the sky stretching for miles and the Earth under Vera and Sixx's hooves theirs only to conquer. Compared to that feeling, riding with the Kings must have been downright domesticating.

"But David was just the opposite: all purpose, no pleasure. A real man on a mission, and it was damn admirable. He needed our help tracking someone down, and we thought his cause was justifiable, so we did." Andy shrugged, his vagueness deliberate and obvious as his gaze turned to the ground, kicking absently at a pebble. "Once it was done, it just felt right for him to stick around; the rest is history."

The rest was the history of the Kings, Kyle thought: it was only when David had joined with Neal and Andy did the three find fame by robbing banks, and they began to leave their distinctive calling card--one simple playing card, from an unmarked deck, purchased states and miles from each robbery--once the newspapers needed a name to match up to the crimes. "Who were you tracking down?" Kyle asked, knowing it was probably one question too far but also knowing he'd never get the answer from David himself.

Andy's eyes grew dark; clouded. Though the question was directed about David Cook, the topic hit all three of the original Kings hard, the memories of that first meeting with the man from Missouri unforgettable to him. "A lawman," was his first answer, as vague and unemotional as the other details of their little history lesson, but he amended himself, believing that as a true member of the Kings Kyle deserved to know more. Besides, it wasn't like he wouldn't ask about it later on. "Someone who did wrong to David. To his family." The cruelties David had spoke of in that dingy saloon in Austin, the reasons he gave that made Andy and Neal join with him on the spot over six years ago, still stung in his mind like they were his own wounds. "Wronged them _bad._ "

A chill went down Kyle's spine, so severe and sudden he almost let his pistol fall to the ground from his grip; the shooting lesson would have certainly been over then. David had never spoken about a family before, none of them did; perhaps there was a reason for it.

The moment passing along by them with the hours of the day, Andy cleared his throat; Kyle had seemed determined to bring back the Kings's past, whether the outlaws wanted it or not. "After we helped him find the lawman, Dave...lost his purpose. He completed it, yes, but once you allow one thing to mean everything to you, and one day it's gone, you just end up feeling empty. No one can last that long like that."

Kyle narrowed his eyes at the other man; something didn't add up. The portrait of a despondent, empty shell Andy was painting didn't correlate with the David Cook Kyle had gotten to know over the past two months, who broke out into broad, unadulterated smiles at the drop of a hat and found the positive in Kyle's admittance to the Kings, even when Kyle sometimes could not. And then there were David's moments of moodiness, when the confidence and optimism seemed to drain from his body out of his boots, a dull, grey mirror of his usual self. There were moments when he was lost, yes, and times when no one else could reach him, but David Cook hardly seemed like a man without a purpose. "He must have found something else," Kyle concluded, and Andy couldn't help but smile at this deduction.

"That," he replied, pointing his finger at Kyle in the form of a pistol and miming pulling the trigger, the other man's hunch right on target. "Is who's at the other end of that letter."

The _letter_...the most recent thing to send David into a world of his own thoughts. Kyle wondered with great interest who it could have been, eager to discover a part of David's mysterious past that had been kept hidden from him for two months, and hidden from the rest of the world forever. "His family?" he took a shot in the dark, unaware until five minutes ago that David Cook even had family to speak of.

Andy's smile faded to something bittersweet, the question unwittingly moot: there had been a family, many years ago before he had ever come across Neal and Andy's path, and he supposed there could always be the possibility of a family in his future if David got his way and found an escape from the outlaw life. But at this moment in time, the only kind of family that existed for David were the other Kings, the four men around him who would have his back for anything, would follow their leader through Hell if need be. "A woman," Andy supplied the correct answer, the one word being far more simple and yet more complicated than anything else. "Her name's Kelly, lives in Texas. Real spitfire of a girl."

"So you've met her?" Kyle's interests were once again piqued at learning something new about the leader of the Kings. "What's she like? When did they meet? Do they just talk in letters?" He found it astounding that being an outlaw allowed for any type of social life, much less finding oneself a sweetheart in Texas of all places. He grinned wide, still at a loss as to why David seemed to resent the outlaw life so much. He seemed to be able to have it all.

But Andy cut off the stream of questions from the Kings's newest member: even for the patient Andy Skib, Kyle's curiosity eventually wore thin. Besides, removing Kyle from the distractions at camp was the entire purpose of this excursion, not to gossip about David Cook's past. "The rest is for Dave to tell you, if he decides he wants you to know," he reasoned, holding his arms up in surrender. He could talk for days about his own history, the adventures he shared with the Dr. by his side, but David's stories were his and his alone to reveal. "You'll get no more from me until you learn how to shoot."

He motioned towards Kyle's pistol yet again; bad form, locked elbows, it didn't matter so long as the kid had aim. Feeling that uneasiness about his skill returning to the pit of his stomach, Kyle still did as the other man instructed, raised his arm to keep the cactus in his line of sight, making sure to relax and let the bullet do its magic as he squeezed the trigger and fired.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Five years ago** _

"If you keep lettin' me win like this, darlin', pretty soon you're going to have to ante up with your trousers."

David frowned, a deep-set furrow in his brow becoming a permanent addition to Burleson, because he wasn't letting anyone win, and had never done so since he was old enough to hold five playing cards in his fist. He was no card shark--he left that position to the paddleboat hustlers along the Mississippi, one of which had found his way to Blue Springs one summer and taught David the game as a boy--but he had always considered himself a fairly decent hand at poker. Now, he observed, as he caught sight of his dwindling stack of cash on the table, his pride was being handed back to him, bruised.

The flow of his bank notes had been clearly headed across the table in a moderate flow over the past few hours, with some give or take in each immediate hand but the overall outcome was the same. David could lie and say he was distracted by the charming beauty across from him, entrancing him with sharp, intelligent hazel eyes and the quirk of tender red lips so effectively he was simply handing his money over to her. But David knew well enough to accept when he was licked, and this Kelly Clarkson--pants-wearing, whiskey-shooting, card-hustling, independent woman he had never seen the likes of anywhere in the territories--was licking him but good.

Oh, but that was quite a different kind of game, David mused over his cards; one he would like to play with Miss Clarkson soon enough.

His gaze flickered from the hand he was dealt to the woman before him, finding it difficult to look away for long. "You do seem to be holding your own here, Kelly," he admitted, pausing only momentarily to remind himself not to call her "Miss"--he had received a mean poke in the ribs for that earlier, with a force that warned him not to entice the woman to use the other four fingers against him, too. "But I'll be catching my second wind soon, just you see."

She laughed, leaning back leisurely at her regular poker table--God, that laugh, David thought, the rest of the saloon and all the people in it falling away at just that sound, wishing he could hear it forever. "A second wind; sure, Mr. Cook," she joked, insisting on calling him by his last name purely because he had asked her not to. "The same second wind your friend here will catch." She pointed to her left, to the young man very literally holding the third side of the poker table. Andy had been a wreck for the past half hour, the teenager barely able to hold onto his five cards let alone bet with any level of skill or intuition. His head rested on the table along with his poker hand, eyes covered by a thick shock of dark hair, skin the slightest hint of green.

"Andy is doing quite well, but thank you for your concern." David took one look at the younger man and knew he wouldn't be playing any poker hands for a long while, but he wouldn't give Kelly the satisfaction of saying so.

His remark brought up a pained groan from Andy; Kelly showing little remorse. "It's not my fault your boy can't handle his liquor," she replied flippantly, her cheeks barely flushed an inebriated pink. The shots of whiskey were far more at home in Kelly's body than in Andy's. David sympathized with his partner, truly he did; but from the moment the three outlaws had walked into the Breakaway Saloon he could tell Kelly Clarkson was not a lady you challenged, shot-for-shot, unless you planned to lose. It would be a lesson Andy learned the hard way, but a lesson learned nonetheless.

She nodded her head at her other side, a mischievous smile on her face; David's own lips couldn't help but curve into a smirk behind his cards. "You gonna bet, blondie, or what?" she challenged the man who made up the fourth end of the poker table, an ease and familiarity in her tone that made David feel like the three outlaws had known her all their lives. Neal, however, was not as pleased with Kelly's newfound favorite nickname for the sharpshooter; he scowled, glaring at her confident smile, wishing she had kept to her playful potshots at David or settled for returning his lovestruck stare.

Folding his cards face-down on the tabletop, Neal admitted defeat; he had no patience for poker as it was, and with Kelly's skill he wasn't very happy with losing. "I'm out," he said gruffly, rising from his seat. He pointed across the table to the teenager, who looked very close to napping in the middle of the ante. "And so's he." Andy sounded his agreement with this, indicating to everyone at the table that he was indeed still alive, and made no signs of protest as Neal helped him to his feet, carrying most of his dead weight.

"We'll be in the room," Neal indicated to David the row of doors along the back wall of the saloon, leading to tiny bedrooms with quaint straw beds and wash basins in each, simple yet more than enough for the cattle drivers with money to put down for one while passing through. There had only been one room available when the three men rode into town, the outlaws happy just to have a roof over their heads and something besides the hard earth underneath their bodies at night, but David wanted an excuse not to resort to sleeping in that room tonight. There was more he was betting on at the Breakaway Saloon than just poker.

With a genial nod over his cards David sent them off, knowing Andy would be in good hands with Neal, who had powered through his own fair share of liquor-fueled evenings that got out of hand. He watched them retreat, Andy's sense of constraint down in the pit of his stomach with the whiskey as he rested his head on Neal's shoulder, arm around his waist, allowing Neal to guide their path to the bedroom. David faintly heard Neal warn him, in a tone he knew was reserved only for Andy, before they disappeared from sight. "If you puke on me, you're going out the window."

Turning his attentions back to Kelly, David quickly read the expression on her face, changing from the playful mischief she employed to lure the three men over to her poker table to something much more serious. "Ready to play, cowboy?" she asked, her voice deep and sultry, quite different from the light, energetic tone she had earlier. Now he felt like neither of them had only poker on their minds.

David's voice dropped low along with his inhibitions as he peeled a few bank notes off the top of his dwindling pile. "I'm no cowboy," he jested. Burleson got its fair share of cattle ranchers, rough-hewn men seemingly impervious to heat, exhaustion, or the smell of thousands of cow hides ready for the slaughter. They held their jobs in respectable esteem and performed them well, but David had never met a cowboy who could successfully string a proper sentence together, much less hold a stimulating conversation beyond the current status of the weather. He couldn't see Kelly, witty and sharp as she was beautiful, getting much pleasure from the company of a cowboy. He tossed the cash in the center of the table with the ante, his stare giving away nothing about his cards and everything about something else. "Raise."

But Kelly seemed unfazed, almost ready for these developments; the corners of her mouth curled up into a smile, her eyes narrowing. "I know exactly who you are." The coolness of her tone made David pause, hesitate for only a second as he gauged her reaction. Their appearances alone revealed to the town that they were no poor cowboys, barely able to afford the leather on their boots. Their growing notoriety from their bank robberies, rumors about the outlaws rolling through the plains like summer thunderstorms, made David fear they were being noticed for more than that, both Neal's many tattoos and his own not easily overlooked or disguised. He thought they were operating well below the radar, enough to relax in a little town like Burleson without being noticed; perhaps he thought wrong.

She added another handful of bills to the pile, her eyes continually locked on David's as his body went rigid, guarded. "Raise," she called. The little lady was not playing around.

Neither was David. The best defense was a good offense, and while his tone still held a playful, flirtatious attitude, this was also about seeing exactly what she knew about the three outlaws. He wanted to make her sweat, and not just from a tough hand of poker. "You pegged us for your table the moment we walked into the room, didn't you." He leaned back in his chair, letting his stare sink in, waiting for the moment when Kelly grew uncomfortable, nervous; guilty. The moment never came. "What's your game, huh? Stacked deck? Cards under the table?" His eyes floated down to the space underneath the poker table, lingering on her uncrossed legs. "I know you're not hiding an ace up your skirt because you're not wearing one."

"I'll wear a skirt when a man puts me in one," Kelly countered, her face giving away nothing but the raw attraction blazing in her eyes. "And I don't cheat, if that's what you're asking." The accusation rolled off her back like rainwater, the card sharp familiar with men twice her size and age calling out in indignation that a girl couldn't possibly beat them in poker. David had yet to learn that Kelly had been taught by every card shark to pass through Texas, perfecting her skills on countless cowboys and unwitting marks, and that she learned long ago that winning in poker was more about mastering your opponent than mastering your cards. "I'm just very, very good at what I do."

"Really." David wanted to see what else Kelly was very, very good at, perhaps something old cowboys and card sharks couldn't teach her. He pushed the rest of his cash pile into the center; he had no idea how much money he had just bargained, but it wasn't like there never was more. A new town, a new bank, and David and the boys suddenly had more money to burn. "All in."

This finally got a rise out of Kelly; her eyebrows perked, contemplating if David was sly and baiting a trap to recoup some of his money, or if he was just thinking with a body part other than his brain. He wouldn't have been the first. "We're not playing for marbles, here, Mr. Cook," she reminded him. She had never played with such high stakes as these three men, easily upping antes and raising over one another like their bank notes were prairie grass, mere bunches of it in a wide, unending plain.

Now it was David's turn to smirk, his eyes shining with mischief, a hidden agenda. The game they were playing, this daring dance in a crowded saloon, emptying slowly as the hours went by, was far more interesting than poker. "Let's make it interesting," he propositioned, fanning his cards face-down on the table surface. He leaned over the table to bring his voice down low, an intimate tone he wanted only Kelly to hear. "You win this hand, I tell you why I'm no cowboy. But if I win," he winked as Kelly leaned in as well, the wide Spanish oak table still bridging a distance between them, but now he could reach out and touch her if he wanted, curl a strand of her hair around his finger and feel its silkiness for himself. "When I win this hand, you have to tell me what it takes for a man to get you into a skirt."

Kelly couldn't help but grin, the outlaw's playful deviousness finally breaking down her sly poker face. "Let's see those cards, then," she challenged, as she stretched her leg underneath the table, sliding a surreptitious boot toe up the length of David's calf. It took all of his willpower not to overturn that goddamned slab of wood and take her right there on the saloon floor. "Show me what you got."

Without taking his eyes off the woman, David overturned his cards, revealing a respectable two pair: aces and queens, one of the better hands he had been dealt that evening, even when it was his turn to deal the cards. "Do I win?" his voice was a lust-fueled rasp, enjoying the pleasure of the chase as much as the capture.

But the satisfied look that crossed Kelly's face told David he bet more than he bargained for. "Your little bet's useless to me, Mr. Cook," she patronized. "I told you, I already know who you are. I just want the answer to one question."

David would have been tenser if Kelly's leg hadn't kept running up and down his own, her ankle nearly hooking him in by the calf like a stream trout caught for supper. "And what would that be?"

Kelly told David all he needed to know when she overturned her cards and revealed the three kings in her hand. "I want to know what an outlaw gang's doing in Burleson."


	7. Chapter 7

_"You sure pick some of the damnedest friends." - Luke Short to Bat Masterson, after killing Masterson's friend Charlie Storm_

Another nameless town along the endless plain, built with hard labor on the bones of peoples who existed before time, developed now as a haven for wayward pilgrims and travelers and the thieves that preyed upon their naivety. Another heist, executed perfectly with the added security of an additional lookout on their hands. Although Kyle's presence and skill shaved off precious seconds from their getaway, David felt the drudgery of this lifestyle, eating away at his years, wishing he could be somewhere else. Another saloon filled to its timber rafters with low-lifes and whores, the West's den of debauchery. David no longer cared to wonder if he'd ever be surprised with immaculate floors and Spanish oak furniture; he almost expected the opposite now, always wondering if that bar, that woman, that entire town had somehow been a trick of his mind, a mirage. 

But this was not the time for brooding over the past; he had done enough of that recently, dreaming away the hours on a life that could have been. He even recognized that his inaction was noticed by the rest of the Kings, their newest member keenly and enthusiastically observant; a quality David liked about Kyle, endeared him to the greenhorn in most aspects besides his personal life. Every man needed some time to themselves, to sort out their thoughts without the scrutiny of others at their backs, but David's respite for contemplation had overstayed its welcome among the outlaws, and as the leader of the Kings it was his responsibility to maintain the morale of the others, even if it was at the cost of his own. 

_This,_ he thought, as he slung an arm around Kyle's shoulders, the smell of stale liquor and the sound of a wild, roaring party welcoming them, _this is a time for celebration._

No one paid any mind to the outlaws walking into a rowdy tavern, just as David had expected: the report from Andy, who had rode ahead one day in search of a town with a low tolerance for rumors and an even lower standard of morals, was accurate as it had always been. This was a den full of thieves and robbers, though none with such a reputation as the Kings, and it proved to be the perfect place to blow off a little steam--in more ways than one. Andy had also reported that the saloon girls here in town--little more than a row of weather-beaten shanties surrounding the saloon simply called the Grove--weren't of the highest quality, but they were plentiful and quite friendly. Neal had raised an eyebrow at this news but stayed silent while Joey clapped his hands together and gave out a whoop; Kyle grinned as usual, once again trying to hide his excitement but failing, ready to experience the one fringe benefit to the outlaw life he had yet to discover. 

And David...David wished he could say he held the higher ground, was the better man because of it, but the letter that burned a hole in his shirt pocket left desire burning in him somewhere else, and while he was a man with a deep love in his heart, he was still just a man. 

From the look on Kyle's face as they entered the saloon, the kid had never been to a place such as this, entranced by its halfhearted attempts at exoticism and decadence, the delicate paper lanterns dotting the ceiling and black and red lacquer wall decorations fooling no one. The floorboards were stained with old blood, final, lasting reminders from former patrons, and etched into the Grove's permanence with a thick layer of spilled liquor, inadvertently polishing the floor to a respectable sheen. The colored lanterns cast the entire saloon in a deep red glow, its inhabitants shifting through the room like souls from Hell, the darkened lights disguising any physical deformities of saloon girl and patron alike. It was like spying the sky right before a dangerous morning thunderstorm, deep reds a warning to everyone around: _abandon all virtue, ye who shall enter here._

"This is quite a place," David commented, taking Kyle's wide-eyed wonder as his response. Even he had to admit, for a brothel in the middle of nowhere, with wild men and outlaws its most loyal patrons, the Grove outdid itself in its appearance; most places didn't even bother to whitewash the walls as decoration, their proprietors content in leaving the wood bare. The furniture in the main room, he noticed--tables and chairs set up for poker, benches lining the back walls with old cushions worn to the stuffing for private, lustful conversations--was painted a gaudy black, and looked nothing like sturdy, Spanish-crafted oak. A stairway behind the bar led to a second floor filled with mousehole-like bedrooms, a maze of stiff mattresses, strong perfumes and writhing bodies, a paradise for the paying customer. 

Joey, already eyeing the human merchandise on display underneath the red lights, threw an arm overtop David's, each outlaw flanking Kyle's sides. "Work hard," he said, thumbing a wad of bank notes in his hand, his take from their latest heist. " _Play_ hard." 

He left them quickly, eager to be parted with his cash in the many methods the Grove had to offer him. The payouts for each King after a heist, now split five ways instead of merely four, were never large but they were always quite enough; Kyle's share for Fox Canyon alone was more money than he had ever held in his hand before, and the loot added from each heist was more than he could imagine. Each outlaw had their own vices they liked to indulge in that depleted their coffers a bit, but Joey's were indeed the most decadent, and the most expensive. David had discovered immediately after their first heist with Joey that he enjoyed gambling, placing bets on any game one could pass in a saloon, raising the stakes of his poker and blackjack games high and keeping them there--and typically losing. Much like his history before joining the Kings, Joey never spoke about his massive losses, and David never asked, but he always suspected the latter might have led to the former--and wondered if whatever, or whomever, chased Joey Clement out of Arizona would come back to haunt them all. 

But for now, the air was calm, the ground underneath them docile and the other thieves and drifters in the saloon apathetic to their presence. This was a time for fun, not the worries of a leader David always placed upon himself. "Go on, Kid," he implored Kyle, jutting his chin out to the scene before them. "Have a ball." 

Like a child let loose in a confectioner's shop and given free reign, Kyle took a hesitant step forward as if approaching a deer or rabbit for the kill, careful not to startle the saloon lest it disappear. But before he took his full leap into the revelry, David's hand clamped down on his shoulder again, much stronger than before, and with more purpose than a friendly gesture. The outlaw's face was serious when Kyle looked back, his eyes shifting throughout the room and landing on the bar at the far end of the saloon. "If you approach Andy," he instructed, leaning in close to Kyle's ear, making sure they were the only two hearing this conversation. "Make sure he approaches you first. Keep it light, but not too friendly. Always follow his lead; if he thinks you're being watched, then you don't know him, and you never have." 

David's directions were stern and odd, but immediately Kyle understood their necessity; this may have been a den of thieves but they were indeed not friends. The Grove was meant to be pure relaxation and enjoyment for the Kings but they always had to remember that Andy's identity and his role as the shadow of the outlaw gang were kept hidden from all, that revealing he was even associated with the Kings could spell disaster in their next heist. The climate of the saloon seemed to be that of indifference to everyone's business but one's own, but they could never be too confident or too careless. 

His gaze followed David's over to the bar, noticing a familiar blond ordering a stiff drink, settling himself down in a barstool. "What about Neal?" he asked. When they had arrived, the sharpshooter had made a beeline to the shelves of poor quality liquor, the reflection of red light off the bottles illuminating the bar, serving as a beacon to those looking to satisfy their thirst. 

The hand on his shoulder gave a light squeeze; David's indication not to take the question further. "Neal knows what he's doing," he assured him, an answer David commonly gave to questions concerning Neal Tiemann: intimidating at best to those that did not know him well, Neal had the temperament of a loner who was never alone, his words parsed but meaningful and his actions all his own. 

Kyle watched as Neal waited patiently for his drink, the man of few words seeming to feel right at home in a den of voices and sounds, the constant buzz of noise soothing what Kyle had considered his naturally irritable nature. Neal's head turned to survey the saloon's surroundings, first one way and then the other, catching the eye of the younger man seated on the stool next to him. He gave the man a solemn nod of recognition, watching his large, expressive brown eyes carefully; the tension in his bones relaxing when Andy returned the nod, raising his glass to Neal in greeting with a hint of a smile on his lips so faint only Neal could recognize it. The young saloon girl draped over Andy's shoulders, chatty and round-faced, pouty painted lips as she tossed back long blond hair, distressed that her prospective client seemed to have suddenly lost interest. 

David's arm around Kyle's shoulders was quickly replaced by a slender, more feminine arm, adorned with an elaborate tattoo far more pleasing to Kyle's sensibilities than the unblinking eye on David's wrist. The body that belonged to the arm was also more enjoyable than David Cook: its slenderness continued throughout the young woman's frame, down her petite hips and long legs thinly veiled with a sheer petticoat, an obvious marker of what kind of attention she was seeking at the Grove. The fair skin underneath her ink was flawless, Kyle would have remarked had his brain been functioning correctly, and while her loose bun of blond hair inferred modesty, her striking blue eyes and the sly smile upon red lips told him otherwise. 

"You look lost," she supplied, leaning over Kyle's frame, low-cut cleavage pressing against his shoulder. "Is this your first time?" 

Her breath against his ear felt nothing like a summer breeze, her voice comparable more to a crow's caw than a bluebird's song, but Kyle was instantly smitten, his face awash with startled attraction. David mused that perhaps _everything_ to Kyle Peek received some kind of shocked wonderment. Kyle nodded, his eyes wide and miraculously on the saloon girl's face instead of other points south, before quickly attempting to correct himself. "I mean, not my first _time_ , it's my first time with you...damnit, here! I mean my first time _here_..." His face grew redder than the paper lanterns, and he shrugged sheepishly, unable to form any sort of excuse for his awkwardness. "Never been to Utah before." 

David could do nothing more than put his head in his hands, palm making full contact with face, and try not to drop dead from laughter. The kid was hopeless, it seemed, and David wondered if it really was Kyle's first time with a woman; he couldn't fathom how he got anywhere close enough to a girl with that lovingly pathetic display. But this girl didn't mind, had not been fazed in the least, Kyle's pocketful of bank notes more of a motivator than his self-humiliating charm. When David looked up again through his fingers, the blond had maneuvered Kyle away from the entrance and over to one of the benches lining the walls, perkily introducing herself as Megan. 

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," he overheard Kyle reply, employing the courtesy and politeness David bet Mama Peek never thought her sweet son would be using to address a prostitute. Hell, if the kid had a hat on, he'd probably be tipping it to her, too. "I really like your tattoos," he observed, pointing to Megan's arm, her shoulder covered in intricate ink, the grin on his face in hopeful anticipation that he might get closer to examine its contents. 

With a chipper squeal that came more from instinct than the prospect of finding a client for the night, Megan took both of Kyle's hands in hers, eyes lighting up with excitement. "Really?" she asked, her smile nearly breaking free of her face when Kyle nodded his head enthusiastically, dying to talk more. "I got them from a woman who used to live here, took care of us girls better than we do ourselves. We used to call her 'Mama;' I think the designs come all the way from Africa." David watched as Kyle, that sly, genius kid Kyle, reached over to tuck a strand of Megan's hair behind her ear that had become loose from her bun, inching himself closer, the hand coming to rest on Megan's shoulder. Maybe the kid wasn't as clueless as David thought. "Wanna see the other ones she did for me?" 

Before Kyle even had a moment to nod his assent her legs were already off the ground, feet waggling in Kyle's face. "She did the tops of my feet, too," she enthused, hiking one of her elegantly long assets atop Kyle's shoulder, the other coming to rest at his hipbone, Megan virtually seating herself in his lap. The hint of suaveness David thought he saw in Kyle was obliterated by these new developments, and the kid was startled to immobility, body so stiff one would assume Megan was cozying up to a lifelike statue. Always expressive, Kyle gave away his shock all over his face, eyes large and unblinking, jaw dropped so wide open David bet he could throw grapes into it even from ten feet away. 

There was little David could do but shake his head and laugh; he was sure Kyle would laugh along with him eventually, when the embarrassment of being shown up by a saloon girl cooled and his blushed red cheeks returned to their original pallor. _Work hard, play hard,_ David reminded himself of Joey's motto, the outlaw who had already found himself in the thick of a blackjack game, a glass of gin in one hand and the backside of a leggy brunette in the other. He looked on with some mild interest as Megan leaned in, ever flexible, and whispered to Kyle that if he followed to her private room upstairs--and for an inevitable fee--she'd show him where on her body her more discreet tattoos were located. 

"It looks like she's taken." 

David spun around, shocked he had been taken by such surprise, and found himself face to face with expanses of voluptuous, milky-white flesh, intelligent eyes ringed with kohl, and smirking red lips. Taken by surprise by a woman, no less; some infamous outlaw, he berated himself. "Oh, I wasn't interested in her," he explained, watching the self-satisfied smirk widen on the woman's face, with a much keener interest than he had been watching Kyle with his saloon girl. 

She nodded her head over to the couple, who were giggling to each other as Kyle's fingers ran over her tattooed shoulder and Megan toyed with wisps of his shoulder-length hair. "Well, you were looking," she called him out brazenly, unafraid of losing a prospective client or making an enemy. "And if he's what you're interested in, we don't sell it." 

He couldn't help but grin at the absurdity, a light chuckle deep in his lungs building and coming out from his mouth a loud, encouraging laugh. "That is certainly not what I'm interested in, I assure you," he said, spying the blond draped around Andy and a smiley, thin woman with deep slits up her skirts vying for Neal's attention; he wondered if those girls bothered to ask them the same question. He narrowed his eyes at the woman before him, his playful streak winning out. "You've got quite a mouth on you, don't you?" 

"I take that as a compliment, thank you." She quickly looked away, regarding the paper lanterns as terribly interesting, trying not to reveal to David in her eyes that she wasn't usually the receiver of compliments. "Life's too short not to speak up once in a while," she mused, folding her arms across her chest in contemplation. Life was too short to spend it in a whorehouse, David thought to himself, but he, unlike this woman, wasn't looking to ruffle any feathers. "Can't say I've ever really lived if I've never had anything to regret, right?" 

The lives he had taken with his revolver to save his own skin; each bank robbery that now became more mundane routine than excitement or necessity. The reason he had tracked that lawman down so many years ago and flung himself gun-first into the life of an outlaw. Leaving Burleson, Texas, and the young card shark behind in Sugarfoot's dust. "I've got a whole list of regrets," he noted, very ready to tack another onto that list. 

She introduced herself as Gina, holding out her hand with the intention of shaking for an introduction. David instead took the hand he was given, upturned it in his own, and pressed his lips to the palm. The intimacy of the kiss was not lost on Gina, whose fingers curled at the underside of his chin, tangling themselves in a short-cropped beard. He didn't need to lay the charm on thick tonight, not in a den full of women he was sure reacted more favorably to gold than sweet words, but this woman had a quick wit and intelligence in her eyes that endeared her to David. Made him think of another girl he had met in a saloon, who had been far from the lifestyle of red lanterns and smeared makeup. "I'm David," he replied, squeezing her hand gently as he watched the color rush to her cheeks. 

But her eyes were not on his, nor were they characteristically on the wad of bank notes in his shirt pocket; Gina's attentions were caught by the distinctive and detailed tattoo of an unblinking eye on David's wrist, his reminder to himself that, whether guarded or safe, he was always being watched--both by good and by bad. And, ironically, it had become one of the very things the ones who were watching made notice to identify him. "David Cook," she supplied, the knowing smile spreading across her face wiping away his own, replaced with a tense, tight-lipped smirk. "You're one of the Kings gang, aren't you?" 

The grip on Gina's hand tightened; even in a pleasure den, he could never be too secure. "Depends on who's asking," he said, the quick, emotionless turn of his voice a warning to anyone who had known, though dangerously few ever lived to repeat it. He was letting things go too quickly, revealing what he shouldn't. Perhaps he should have borrowed a bit of Andy's skepticism or Neal's distrust before he walked into the saloon. 

He hadn't fazed Gina in the slightest; still smiling, she leaned in closer, until the ends of her black hair tickled against David's cheek. "I'm not gonna rat you out," she explained, unaffected by David's tight grip on her hand; she had experienced worse in this profession before, by men even more dangerous than David Cook, and not nearly as attractive. "No one here even cares, most have the same troubles as you. Just not quite as famous, rich--" she patted the shirt pocket at his breast, feeling both the sizable bankroll he kept there as well as Kelly's most recent letter. "Or handsome." The hand went up to stroke his cheek, Gina's fingers grazing against the stubble, and against his instincts David didn't pull away. It was so good to feel the touch of a woman against his skin again, and although he had been with many a saloon girl in his years in the West, it was refreshing--and a bit invigorating--to find one he could possibly have an intelligent conversation with as well. He could charm a woman easily into her bed, but rarely found anyone worth charming into their mind. 

"I'm just an admirer," she said, breath tickling against David's ear. 

Without thinking he was leaning into the touch, eyes locked onto Gina's, eager to enjoy in the nature of the Grove as his fellow Kings had already begun. "And just what is it that you admire?" he asked; he had found many a woman in the saloons dotting the West whose interests were sparked the moment they discovered his dangerous identity, the chance encounter of courting with the famed leader of the Kings only bested in excitement by bedding him. His reputation with the ladies of frontier towns had certainly improved along with the notoriety of their heists. 

Gina had all the right answers, and she had them right when David wanted to hear them. "You," she answered simply, her dark eyes entrancing in the dim lights of the saloon, making David wish to forget his troubles in them, of the responsibilities that came with this infamy, and the woman he left behind because of it. For right now, all he wanted was to see how far his outlaw fame could take him.

***

Neal could vaguely recall the brunette gyrating on his lap was named Haley, but he would have had a better time remembering it had her name been scrawled across her cleavage.

It was most of what he saw of the woman, anyway, her tired-looking eyes and thin, smiling lips that first revealed her name not leaving as much of a lasting impression as the other physical characteristics she chose to showcase. Her legs were equally alluring, the deep slit in her skirts made for such an observation, and Neal felt almost obliged to make it, if only for the sake of her ruined petticoats. Haley leaned closer to Neal, the deep scent of rosewater in her hair, and whispered something he was sure was supposed to be enticing, but with her chest brought up closer like this, his chin almost pressed against the flesh, there wasn't much desire to concentrate on what she had to _say_. 

Just as Neal had made a beeline for the barstool on his way into the Grove, Haley had made a direct route over to Neal, almost sensing the cash on him, just waiting to be spent. It had been a rather eventful night for the saloon but her own prospects had fallen through, each man she cozied up to ending up broke, surly, or too inebriated to make their way up the stairs. The fresh meat that came in late into the night--obviously outlaws, no one came to their poor excuse for a pleasure den unless there were no other options available--seemed eager to spend their money, and Haley was more than happy to take it from this man. 

"What did you say?" Neal asked over the din of the crowd, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, with one hand on his glass of whiskey and the other securely around Haley's waist, making sure her ministrations didn't send her flying off his lap. 

Haley wanted to frown--she hated being ignored, hated it, and in her line of work it usually meant the difference between having the money for a roof over her head and breakfast the next morning. But frowns also caused wrinkles, and unhappy clients, and those qualities were far more dangerous than an outlaw who wasn't paying attention. "I said," she leaned in a little closer, her voice a little louder. "You've got quite a grip there. You're pretty strong, ain't you?" 

Nonchalantly Neal shrugged as he downed the last of his drink, spending more time placing the glass back onto the bar than caring about Haley's flirtations. He had heard her this time, though, and wasn't quite impressed: she was like every other saloon girl that passed his fancy throughout any town of the West, long-legged, coy and flirtatious to a fault, their names and the sensation of their bodies against him lost to his memory. But he smirked anyway, pretending to feel complimented just as Haley had pretended to be sincere about the compliment, and let his hand sweep down her body to squeeze a supple backside. "I suppose." 

She wanted to whisper more, perhaps cause that hand of his to wander elsewhere along her frame, but Neal's attentions were already sidelined by the bartender, who had begun to refill Neal's empty glass instead of carting it away. He gave the bartender a quizzical look; he hadn't ordered another whiskey, though he wasn't going to refuse it once the liquid splashed into his glass. "Compliments of him," the gruff bartender answered, hiking a thumb to the right of Neal's barstool. The man hadn't even needed to go through the trouble; Neal already knew if someone had just bought him a drink at the Grove, it would be him. 

"Enjoying yourself?" came the low voice dancing against his ear, the voice Neal had known in every capacity, heard every emotion inflected through the years. He heard playfulness this time, with a hint of deep lust, layered with inebriation. One of his favorite mixes. 

He turned to his benefactor, who had a girl of his own vying for his affections--blond, and round-faced, a bit too fresh-faced for Andy's usual fare but this town seemed not to be for choosers. "Very much," he exaggerated over his shoulder, the glint in his eye matched in Andy's, daring each other to break this facade, knowing neither of them would. His night was going far from spectacularly: Haley could barely keep his attention, having no patience for her overused flirtations and flatteries, though her body and the way she had mastered its power were indeed captivating. She would certainly do for tonight, ideas of how to demonstrate that strength of his she liked to muse upon already running through his head. 

Andy persisted, and the mere sound of his voice low in the saloon and the feel of his breath against Neal's skin enticed him more than anything Haley's body could have done. "You may fuck her tonight," he challenged, voice heard only by Neal as he intended, both of the saloon girls beside them too preoccupied with landing their clients to care about their closeness. The hint of a smile on Andy's lips came through even in his words, and Neal took it as a sign of assent, a mark of Andy giving him permission to do so. "But she'll never compare to me." 

A jolt of shivers ran through Neal's body at the thought, the memory: Andy's full, kiss-swollen lips asking, _pleading_ , his body hot and welcoming against Neal's, pulling him in closer, pulling him _inside_. He closed his eyes as his mind flooded with the images of Andy beside him, large eyes heavy-lidded with lust, then squeezed tight as he stuttered out a moan. Neal had to bite his lip to hold back his own moan right there in the saloon, teeth digging into the silver rings in his lip, shuddering as he remembered how tight Andy felt when Neal entered him, every time, how it felt to have every sense filled with him. 

Neal hated to admit it to that smug little face he _knew_ , even with his eyes closed, Andy wore, but he was completely right. Andy always was. 

The touch of a warm, delicate hand brought him back to his senses, elegant fingers tracing against the outline of a hardening cock in his pants. Neal didn't even have to glance down to know those fingers were attached to a slender, feminine arm, belonging to the saloon girl in his lap; not the hand he had been hoping for. "Maybe we should take this courting somewhere else," Haley purred in Neal's ear, the tickling sensation of her breath far from the cool pleasantness of Andy's. She did not know nor care what the other man had whispered into Neal's ear; she was confident that for the rest of the night he was hers. "There's a room upstairs..." 

But, for Neal, first things were first. Retrieving the refilled glass of whiskey he placed it to his lips, wondering in his increasingly tipsy state if he would be able to taste Andy's generosity in the drink, and flashed a glance over his shoulder towards the other man. The saloon girl draped over Andy's shoulders had regained his attentions, albeit with an irritated, coy pout and a grating request for affection--that wasn't going to go over well. " _I'm_ thirsty, too," she whined, banking on her previous experiences that her porcelain doll-like appearance and youthful body would overwhelm any man against her entitlement. Neal rolled his eyes, nearly feeling sorry for the poor girl's efforts; her combination of spoiled sweetness was being wasted on Andy Skib. He wondered how his fellow King had ever become the master of gathering information and misdirecting the less knowledgeable about their outlaw gang: his apathy over his suitor was plastered all over his face like a mask. 

With matching rolling eyes Andy finally paid notice to the girl, whom he barely recalled said her name was Carmen, though he could care even less than Neal about the particulars of his own woman of the evening. He bit his tongue, holding back the remark that he doubted they served chocolate milk at this establishment; her request was instead met with a marked silence, plainly informing her if she wanted Andy's favors, she had to earn it. 

Carmen may have appeared young, but she was no stranger to this game: she had tougher customers than this one before, and sometimes it just took a little sampling for a man to decide he wanted to put down the hard cash for the night. Taking a page from Haley's book she pulled herself into Andy's lap, legs dangling over the side of the barstool as she gave him her most coquettish gaze, batting her eyelashes and running the tip of her tongue along her lips, like a lynx sizing up her next meal. Neal finally looked away from the pair once their lips met, Andy shrugging to himself as he snaked his arms around her waist, a probing tongue asking her mouth for entrance. It wasn't that Neal didn't have the stomach to watch Andy kiss this girl--he had seen far more before this night, had even handpicked a few throughout the years for Andy's gratification--but it was the indifference with which Andy kissed her, the passionless embrace that would lead to more later in the night. Neal didn't think he could stand seeing Andy in such a state without any passion or desire behind it, it just wasn't in him. 

Instead he turned his attentions back to the woman in his lap, a new kind of fire flaring up in him. "What did you say about a room?" he asked, and Haley grinned.

***

Andy rationalized it: she was here. She was here, in his lap, pouting her lips and shimmying back and forth so delightfully, and here _he_ was with nothing else to do at the Grove but partake in the very pleasures for which the saloon was renown. She wanted money and he had it in abundance from their last heist. Her lips were soft, her skin smooth, and he had nothing to hide tonight, the liquor in his blood granting him the courage to be extra daring. She was fairly nice to look at, if a bit young, and Andy discovered she wasn't nearly as irritating when her mouth was preoccupied with kissing him instead of talking.

Her youth masked her experience, Andy discovered, when he realized only after coming up for air that she was straddling him, maneuvering her body atop his in the barstool, modesty not something served at the saloon this late in the night. Carmen's body was warm and inviting against his, indeed, and he was having no trouble demonstrating that to her, the erection in his pants most probably the reason she had hoisted herself onto the stool in the first place. She certainly had all the elements he was looking for to unwind that night, to celebrate the Kings's successful heist, but something didn't feel right to him about this; something felt off, and he couldn't pinpoint what. 

"God, you're amazing," she said seductively, the words meaning nothing more to her than her expert training at wrangling and keeping a man's attentions for the night. But to Andy, they meant so much more. 

_He held Andy through his shuddering aftershocks, stroking his hair, placing sated kisses on his skin when he could, refusing to retreat from Andy's body even after he had grown soft inside him. His limbs feeling impossibly heavy from exhaustion and satisfaction, Andy felt inclined to do little but pull himself in close to Neal, basking in his heady scent and falling into a peaceful, secure sleep to the sounds of his lover's beating heart. "God," he heard Neal whisper before drifting off, voice heavy with an emotion he couldn't define. "You're amazing."_

Andy turned to his side and was greeted by an empty barstool. Without thinking he frowned; there wasn't much point to sexual conquest if there was no one around to boast to about it. 

A flash of movement above him caught Andy's eye, and he saw Neal being led past the stairs and into one of the bedrooms on the second floor, his arm around Haley's waist as they disappeared behind a painted door, one of her elegantly long legs kicking it closed behind them. Andy stared as though he could bore a hole through the door with his eyes, the din of the saloon and its rowdy patrons preventing him from hearing anything happening on the other side. 

He was no idiot: he knew what happened on the other side of a prostitute's door. He had been on that side of the door many times before, and so had Neal, but this felt different somehow; his heart felt suddenly rejected, and lonely, despite the saloon girl currently straddling his lap. 

"Where's my drink?" Carmen huffed, certain her little display so far had been worth at least that. After one lingering last look at the closed door above them, Haley and Neal's exploits behind it limited only by his imagination and Haley's flexibility, Andy returned his attentions to the coquettish girl atop his lap, arched an eyebrow in contemplation, and then promptly dumped her onto the Grove's floor.

***

He thought this was going to be a bit more enjoyable than it was turning out to be.

Neal sat on the edge of the thin mattress glancing down at the top of Haley's head with mild interest, in a room sparsely decorated with dried rose petals and scented oils, and other impersonal aphrodisiacs: tools of Haley's trade. Though the room was permanently Haley's--a true mark of her seniority at the Grove--nothing in the room was uniquely hers, save for a stack of letters she stashed away in a dresser drawer, her only memories of a long-lost fiancee in a life she left on a homestead in San Antonio years ago. She had to keep those, even if she never read them, if only for her own sanity: she had to have something that reminded her this world was real. 

It would have been some use for Neal to have seen that, would have gone far in helping him humanize her and regard her as more than just another whore on her knees in front of him, just like the ones before, or the ones that would come after. But he hadn't seen them, and she had not shown them, and all that he saw in the room were the crumpled bank notes he scattered across her vanity, even more pathetic a decoration than the rose petals, and her head in between his legs, bobbing up and down on his cock like it was her job. 

He groaned but from the irony, not from any pleasure Haley was supposed to give him; it was her job, and she wasn't even that good at it. 

When they had first entered Haley's bedroom, the walk up to the second floor punctuated with coy giggles from the woman pretending to be demure when she was anything but, Neal had thrown down the money immediately, letting her know exactly what he was there for. He looked for no romance at the Grove and he didn't even need companionship: this was merely the quenching of a vice all men had, the pursuit and courtship sometimes more intriguing in itself than the actual sex. But tonight Neal dully went through the motions, not even bothering to undress her or himself as Haley beckoned him to the edge of the bed, the hand caressing his cock proficient yet impersonal, almost clinical about it. There was no chase, there was no dance; Neal didn't like anything to come too easily, not even this. 

Closing his eyes and rolling his head back, he tried to imagine this was someone else; but the mouth sliding along his shaft was too small, the hair he tangled his fingers into too long, and it just wasn't the same. 

Almost as if summoned on cue, the door inched its way open silently, the intruder to their private room unnoticed by both Neal, trying fruitlessly to take some pleasure out of this and make his payment worth it, and Haley, who was far too busy concentrating on other things. But instead of walking in the figure remained in the doorway, watching the scene before him, drinking in with delight the way Neal's fingers drummed against the mattress instead of clutching its edge, his other hand pressed against Haley's scalp, begging her to do something worthwhile. 

Andy leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms against his chest, his expression giving away none of the thoughts running through his mind. It wasn't often he got to see Neal Tiemann from this vantage point. 

The breeze that invited itself into the room was what brought Haley's attentions to the entrance, her skirts rustling in the wind as they splayed along the floor. Recognizing the man dressed all in black she smiled around Neal's cock, extricating herself sloppily with a noisy, wet _pop_. But her face was all business when she sat up straight, locking eyes with Andy, trying to look as presentable as a whore caught in the act ever could. 

"It'll cost extra if you want the both of you," she announced; she may have been a prostitute but she was a business-savvy one, never allowing the worth of her unique commodity to be overlooked. Two in one night wasn't terrible, it wasn't anything she had never accomplished before; and besides, the other man appeared to be a high roller, spending money on his drinks throughout the night like they were water. Perhaps these boys were big tippers. 

With a furrowed brow Neal opened his eyes, peering down to see Haley's attentions brought towards the door. He should have been surprised when his eyes met Andy's in the doorway, silently observing, an indifferent expression masking the amused smirk Neal knew he was dying to give. But their gazes locked, Neal getting lost in the darkened brown eyes that told him everything. If he was being truthful to himself, Neal knew he'd be meeting Andy in this room the moment he raised his glass to him in greeting. 

Haley prattled on, not noticing the intense stare held above her head by the mysterious new man at the door and her client, a conversation of desire going on in midair, requiring no words; Haley had enough of those for the three of them. "I knew Carmen couldn't keep your attention," she gloated; Carmen's youthful appearance and attitude were always hits with older men looking for a girlish conquest, but this time she had aimed her bar too high. "You don't want a girl." She arched her back conceitedly, her own eyes doing nothing to conceal the greed for double her normal charge in case these two wanted to get frisky. "You want a woman." 

Neal considered himself far too much of a gentleman to point out to Haley how her ignorance was so great it was almost laughable. Instead he tapped her on the top of her head none too gently, his expression devoid of any amusement. "Out," he ordered brusquely, no longer interested in what the woman had to sell. He may have thought himself a gentleman, but he wasn't a goddamn saint. 

"Excuse me?!" Haley sat there shocked, offended that the outlaw would even think of kicking her out of her own bedroom--particularly since she hadn't even finished what she had been paid for. She never let it be said that she was a prostitute without integrity. 

Sighing impatiently, Neal leaned back onto the bed, propping himself up on his elbows as if Haley were the intruder. "You heard me," was his retort, and nodded his head towards the door.

"This is my room." 

"Yeah, and we need it." Cleverly Andy noticed Neal said nothing about what the two outlaws would need the bedroom _for_ , but that was no concern of theirs; the girl could come to her own conclusions. Considering her brash, proud cluelessness, she'd probably assume they just needed a private room to speak in the saloon, a cloaked business meeting between cloaked men. Neal rolled his eyes at Haley's stubbornness; he had been used to not getting his way from early childhood, but he was impatient now, and in no mood to handle her temperament, and Andy was right _there_. "I already paid you," he noted, motioning towards the crumpled bills on the dresser. 

Still Haley hesitated, more on principle than any solid bearing. Neal raised an eyebrow at her provocatively, his pants still undone and exposed, his legs spread wide and casual. She really should have left when he was being polite about it. "I hope you're not expecting me to _romance_ you after that," he put on a lewd smile, running his hand down the front of his pants and stroking himself more for the effect than for pleasure. Even Haley couldn't hide her disgust at this, the _disrespect_ of it all, and she got to her feet, storming out in frustration before thinking about maintaining the condition of her room. She hoped whatever business meeting two outlaws found themselves in wouldn't leave her room riddled with bullet holes, though at that moment she wasn't opposed to wishing those holes on either man. She breezed past Andy in the doorway, making no ladylike gestures of courtesy when she edged a shoulder into him deliberately, slamming the door behind her. 

Andy assessed the room without taking his eyes off of Neal, his eyes giving away only what he wanted to reveal. Patiently he waited for Neal's gaze to lock with his again, a lazy, lounging glance that told him Neal was in no hurry; he could look upon Andy Skib any time he so desired. Neal's hand retreated from his crotch but he made no move to redress himself, and he snorted out a laugh at Haley's expense. Andy returned the sentiment with an unaffected smirk, mind instead on the way Neal's laugh rippled through his body, down the tense muscles in his forearms and even to his half-hard cock, yearning for the previous attention it was receiving. 

"I told you," Andy said, dropping his chin and peering at Neal through the fringe of his dark hair. "The ladies in this here town...leave something to be desired." 

There was certainly something Haley left Neal desiring. His hands smoothed out along the thin mattress, testing its resiliency. This wasn't the best bed in the West, worn and extremely well-used, with straw stuffing sticking out of its base, but Neal hadn't slept on anything besides the hard-packed earth for weeks and damn, this felt like heaven. "I can't tell you the better blowjobs I've gotten than this," he rolled his eyes, watching Andy carefully; who hadn't taken a step further into the room since Haley left. He was playing a game, Neal could tell, and all he wanted to do was stalk over there, cross the room with big, sweeping steps and brush Andy's hair out of those striking eyes. "Hell, I've given better blowjobs than this." 

Andy would know--Andy was the _only_ one to know, give his informed take on the matter--but he didn't let his own desire show on his face, only in the ragged breath he took in as Neal smirked at his own invitation and the sweat he felt forming on his palms. God, like it was his first time. Andy's eyes raked over Neal's body, each curve, each inch of skin so familiar to him even when clothed, and yet he could make Andy feel sixteen again with just a glance. 

Their eyes locked again, Andy's lips slightly parted, the tiniest hint of a smile curving into the edges. The game was over. "Prove it."

***

This wasn't anywhere close to feeling like heaven.

In fact, David thought as he hovered overtop of Gina, feeling her body tense and then breathe out a pleasured sigh as he entered her, this felt more base than he had experienced in a long while. There was no fantasy to this encounter, no false notions of romance or displacement of lust like in the dime novels he would never admit to reading. They both knew what the other wanted, David a soft, warm bed for the night and a soft and warm body to go along with it, and Gina the due payment she would receive--and a bit of the notoriety, too, obtaining the all-important notch on her bedpost so she could boast about seducing the great outlaw even years after her sheets were cold. They were both more than willing to give these things to one another, an agreement more along the lines of a business proposition than a courtship, though neither had much experience with the latter. He granted her soft caresses of his naked skin and heady, swoonful sighs that must work wonders on the disillusioned, and she allowed him to kiss tenderly against her neck, lick curves along her collarbone as if he really loved the woman. 

The tiny room itself, like a runaway stagecoach hurtling its way towards doom, was pushing David towards this feeling of earthiness, reality so ingrained into the wood, like old paint, it was suffocating. Gina seemed to keep the place as neat as she could, but there was no mistaking the atmosphere, the thick air of other men in this room, in this bed. All around him--even in the way Gina arched into his touch, how she had expertly undressed and disarmed him, guided him to her by the cock, with little surprise and even less trepidation--he was reminded of how he wasn't the first man to be here, nor would he be the last. 

_He wasn't the first man here, holding her naked frame close to his, each curve accented in the moonlight streaming in through the window. He knew right away she was no newcomer to passion, felt it instantly in the way she opened up to him, unfolding her legs when his hands asked, requested, longed for the heat he found between them. _

_"There was a cowboy...once," Kelly revealed later, when the rest of the world was quiet and he was trying to memorize the curves of her body on touch alone. "Was rustling through from Mexico. Sweetest damn smile you'd ever see." He gave her his own take on a toothy grin, and it sent her into stitches; he could feel the vibrations of her laughter all over her body. "He left after about two weeks, never heard from him again. Thought I was really in love that time."_

_The wistful look on her face, cold from more than the bluish moonlight cast against it, sent a shudder through his body. He curled an arm around her waist, trailing kisses along her neck and whispering her name against the flesh, promising himself he'd write though he never even told her he wouldn't stay, like her cowboy. There had been someone else in that bed before with her, but as far as they both were concerned, this night was all that mattered._

David dug his fingers into the mattress, pushing himself deeper into Gina and using sensation alone as a guide: her creamy, pale skin and full lips made her far from ugly, but the less David saw her, caught her eye during sex, the better. Burying his face in the hollow of her neck, he inhaled deeply the smell of skin scrubbed smooth and scented with musk, Gina's daily ritual that kept her popular among the male visitors of the Grove and, thus, kept her career in check. 

The clean smell of perfumed soap upon her startled him, made him see more red than the paper lanterns in the great parlor: he snapped his hips suddenly, thrusting into her with more force than either expected. Gina let out a cry, though from shock or from pleasure David didn't know and couldn't care; he wanted to apologize, but his heart still raced with an illogical anger, the scent a reminder to him whose bed he was in, and whose he was not. 

Kelly's hair had smelled of rich tobacco smoke filtering through the Breakaway Saloon, her skin like deep sunsets and honest sweat. She had been real. 

_She knew about their infamy, how David and the others lined their pockets with enough cash to attempt taking her on in a poker game, that was clear enough to David; but she never spoke about it, never let it cloud her judgment towards the charming, humbly handsome man she couldn't take her eyes off of. And she didn't let it rule her thoughts when she took him to her bed, so late in that first night David saw no lamp lights on the horizon for miles, the entire state of Texas in slumber, leaving the couple alone to their devices._

_"I've killed people," he admitted as Kelly worked on the buttons of his shirt, unhooking each one to reveal new, desired expanses of skin. Her hands ran beneath the fabric, anxious to touch, and David groaned when her thumb brushed against a nipple; he had never been with a woman so forward before, not even the saloon girls he had encountered who were paid to be forward. _

_"They probably deserved it," she said breezily, focused on the task at hand. She slid his shirt from his shoulders, running her fingers along his biceps, silently asking him to do the same._

_His fingers worked independent from his brain, not bothering to wait to make up his mind before revealing the smooth skin of her shoulders, the warmth of her breasts that he was sure were his own imagination, she simply couldn't be real. "We all have," he insisted, reaching out to cradle one in his palm, feeling its weight and massaging the nipple until it grew erect from his touch, Kelly's head rolling back in pleasure. "Shot them dead. Neal has, and Andy--" _

_"I really don't want to talk about your friends right now," she groaned, hands already on his belt, careful not to disturb his revolver. The brush of her fingers against the bulge in his pants, even through the fabric, reminded him that he didn't really want to talk about them, either. _

_It wasn't until they were both undressed, his hands sweeping over her curves, no longer under the supervision of his mind, that he stopped himself again, only moments before a point of no return. "I'm not a good guy," he said, his conscience winning out over his desires. His cock lingered at her entrance, feeling her heat radiating against him, the closeness teasing them both._

_A hand came up to caress his cheek, and pressing beyond his self-deprecation and shame he looked into Kelly's eyes; with long shadows cast over her soft features in the moonlight and her hair splayed across her pillow, cheeks flushed with arousal, David thought she looked like an angel. A whiskey-swilling, poker-mastering, foul-mouthed vixen of an angel. "You ain't just good," she whispered, shaking her head and pulling him closer, waiting for him to bridge that final gap. "You're the best."_

It wasn't just Gina's scent, or the way she knew the exact methods in bed to make a man melt--her efforts, how she arched her back underneath him to draw David closer, the leg hooked around his hip, seemed almost preternatural but he knew came from years of training and experience. She certainly could have, and probably routinely did, turn the heads of men from all over the state, perhaps even all the West, with her dark, alluring hair, comely looks and brazen attitude men often saw as a challenge, like an unbridled horse begging to be captured, tamed. David raked his hands over her body, letting his more primal instincts take over, feeling the mounting pleasure in his gut as his fingers ran across flesh, knowing for all her pride Gina was already tamed by her profession. 

But it was clear to him, in every way possible, from the nails scraping against his back to the seductive words she purred into his ear, that she wasn't _her_ , and she never would be. 

When he came, eyes shut tightly to both avoid and embrace the images of dark blond hair and hazel eyes swimming in his vision, David gritted his teeth, holding himself back from calling out the name that was on his lips. His energy quickly drained and his limbs like leaden weights, he shivered atop her and Gina held him like she had so many other men, the strongest and boldest of them like stuttering infants after she was through with them. 

"David _fucking_ Cook of the notorious Kings," she mused with a satisfied smirk, leg running up and down his calf, one of the few times she was ever giddy to feel the weight of a man settle overtop her. He could almost feel her humming, see her reminiscing on this one night once she was hunched and gray while all he wanted to do was forget. "Wait'll the girls hear about this one. Nobody's going to believe it." 

_He told her things that night he had never spoken to another being, secrets not even Neal nor Andy knew, had not even whispered them to Sugarfoot in case the wind kicked up his words and sent them across the plains. The sheets of Kelly's bed kept his secrets well, the soft linen tucking them in along with the couple, who feared nothing between them except the coming of the dawn._

_"Never wanted to travel, really," he said as he stroked her hair, his mind more on its unimaginable softness instead of his own words. "Would be happy staying in one place, a house of my own; maybe even a farm, though I don't know a damn thing about chickens and I bet they don't know a damn thing about me." His laugh resounded in his chest; Kelly rested her head against it, entranced by the vibrations._

_The laughter subsided, and was replaced with a sad longing Kelly had never thought the outlaw would have in him. "Andrew was the one who wanted to go places," he said softly; he always remembered his younger brother as he last saw him, wishing David safe passage for his routine trip into town with a mock salute, disappointed he couldn't join his brother but taking pride in being named the man of the house until David returned. Andrew had only been fourteen, and just traveled so far as the railway station in Blue Springs during its opening, boasting that one day he'd take that train as far as the oceans, see the country as a blur underneath its tracks. But that was more than two years ago now, a fact David felt with every muscle in his body, every memory that slowly eroded with time. God, Andrew had only been fourteen. _

_It wasn't the most romantic pillow talk in the world but there was much more to it than that. Kelly felt the weight of his words in David's chest, a building pressure of emotions he never let out, never allowed himself to, until this moment. She liked to think that he needed simply to say these things aloud rather than to her; he needed an outlet or else he'd burst like a swelled dam, wrecked and just as devastating. She pressed her fingers against the cherry red heart tattooed against his breast, dripping blood as if the very organ were weeping. Her own heart had tearful secrets, too._

_"Things don't always make sense in this world," she said, almost feeling the tightness coil inside David through his skin. Tilting her head up to meet his eyes, Kelly saw a glassy sheen where there had been intelligent wit and lightness before; unshed tears of mourning, something she was more than versed in herself. "And sometimes, things happen and it just don't seem fair. But everything's got its own reason, its own purpose--even if you can't see it right away." She smiled, thinking of those words given to her as comfort, and now she tried to give them in kind. "My daddy lives by those words...guess he has to, some days." _

_David lifted her chin lightly with his hand, eyes asking for clarification. "My mama--" she bit her lip; even after all these years it was too painful to give it that final sentence, that permanence. Her shoulders sagged, and David held her tighter to him, his heart feeling strained and full for an entirely different reason than before. "Typhoid. I was only nine at the time. Broke my daddy's heart, but he tried not to show it much; still had a little girl to raise. He's taught me everything, he has; smart enough to found this whole town, keep it running even when the cows seem like they're gonna overrun the place." She smirked then, thoughts of her father and his good nature, his good intentions, much closer to her heart than memories of her mother's tortured last days._

_"Is he the one who taught you not to wear a skirt?" David joked, the laughter back in his eyes, creasing the skin at their corners as he ran a hand down Kelly's side, tickling the flesh there and pulling her in closer. His body was almost ready for another round, his heart already there._

_Kelly nodded, desire already burrowing itself back in underneath her skin along with something else, a deeper emotion she had not felt since that one cowboy many years ago, and thought she'd never feel again. "'You only need to dress up for your wedding and your funeral'," she recited her father's words, who was equally a man of the land as he was a man of books. "That's what my daddy always says. Though I'd hope either man I meet at those occasions would take me in blue jeans as well as a dress."_

_Pressing his smiling lips to her temple, David wanted to say how he'd take Kelly in any capacity, as princess or beggar, cowgirl or maid. So long as he could touch her like this, feel her, listen to the sound of her laughter like bluebirds in spring...he didn't give a damn about anything else. But these feelings felt too fresh, too soon; he didn't want to disappoint her like her cowboy. Never. "Who's your daddy?" he asked with a wink, rewarded with that laugh he never knew how he lived without._

_Her answer startled him but he made certain she couldn't notice, forgetting Kelly was the one to call out the outlaws in the first place. He couldn't hide anything from her. "He owns the bank."_


	8. Chapter 8

"That's _it?_ "

Gilbert stomped and snorted at the sound of his owner's raised voice, the irritation in his tone particularly startling to the good-natured horse. It was all Kyle could do to calm him as he groomed, patting the sandy-haired horse's throat soothingly with one hand and running a rough currycomb along his flanks with the other. Gilbert's mane and bushy tail--the same color as his rider's hair, and just as curly and unmanageable--would have to wait until the horse was in a more placid mood, Kyle wasn't going to attempt dragging a brush through those tangles. The other horses would have to wait as well: he had already tended to Sixx after their exhilarating escape from another successful heist the previous evening, and Andy's Vera, having rode into camp long afterwards, had been a breeze, but willful Sugarfoot and his own Gangles were still irritated from the layer of desert dust settled on their coats, wondering what was taking Kyle so long.

_They'll have to hold their horses,_ Kyle thought before instantly regretting the pun. _Something's going on._

David had already moved on past Joey, dropping the small pile of bank notes on top of the outlaw's belongings, the bills fluttering into the brim of Joey's hat on the ground. "Five hundred sixteen," he said again to Joey as he handed over Neal's share, feeling like a Santa Claus doling out presents without there being anything to feel jolly about. "You know what's there, you heard me count it last night. That's one hundred to each of us, and the rest goes to food and bullets." He tossed over the additional wad of cash to Andy, the task of purchasing supplies for the Kings permanently falling upon his shoulders.

Shaking his head again, Joey looked down at the money, the usually laid-back outlaw appearing uncharacteristically perturbed. Kyle had never seen him like this, but then again, he had never seen such a pitiful haul from the towns they touched, barely scratching the surface of some other banks with far less security and far more to lose. It hadn't been a difficult heist by any stretch of the imagination--David had even tipped his hat to the terrified bank owner as the outlaws departed, leaving a trail of destruction and a king playing card in their wake--but Joey obviously intended to be more lucratively rewarded. It was all the same to Kyle, truly: it was still more money than the old ranch would make in a year, and he himself in a lifetime.

"I can't believe this," Joey muttered, though he knew there could be no other alternative at the moment. He had been in that bank just as the rest of them, watching the meek bank owner scour the tiny safe and pull out the dismally small bankroll they held in their possession. It would have been better if they hadn't even planned the robbery at all; then Joey wouldn't have felt it was a life-threatening excursion wasted.

"Andy said it would be light," contributed Neal with a shrug. His own motivations for the robbery had already run their course: the exhilaration of the actual heist and the wind whipping around him and his horse, his friends, as they made their triumphant escape...those were the rewards for their troubles for Neal, and the rest was just gravy.

But those had never been the things Joey desired; he had not the luxury to only care for adrenaline and the wind, like others. "I didn't think that'd mean it was _this_ light." Indeed, Andy had warned them, overhearing in his rounds that Jackson was a dying town, the frenzy of the gold rush that helped it thrive long since gone, along with any chance wealth would grace the town again. When Andy had given the report he had not been optimistic, keeping his eyes down to the fire; perhaps the cash set about before them was the reason he had kept to himself. "What, did only three people have their money in this bank?"

Once again Gilbert tensed, shaking his head and snorting; Kyle calmed him as best he could, cooing into the horse's ear so that his anxiety would not spread to the other horses like mayflies. Pressing a finger to his own lips, he shushed the agitated horse; this wasn't just about keeping the others calm, Kyle wanted to make sure he heard this conversation himself.

"We're not far from Paso del Norte," Joey turned to David, his voice low, like whispering a conspiracy. "Half a day if we get on the road now, if even. I'm sure the banks there have a _lot_ more than five hundred lying around."

Paso del Norte...there wasn't a man out in the fields of the West, cowboy, outlaw or lawman, that hadn't heard of the town; aptly named by its Mexican inhabitants as the fastest way to travel into one country from the other. The men who had crossed there always said that the dirt looked just about the same everywhere, the air just as hot on one side of the border as the next. A bustling city full of traders, farmers and soldiers for both nations, the town thrived as much as its sister town, El Paso, and was bound to be swimming in whatever currency the outlaws would so choose to rob, dollar or peso.

But with that added reward, came added risk: Paso del Norte was a popular city but it had its fair share of lawmen searching for outlaws who considered erasing their bounties by crossing the border, or bored soldiers looking for any excuse for bloodshed--and David wouldn't give either party any satisfaction. If robbing banks had been about the money he would have suggested trailing a path of plunder through all points south years ago; but it wasn't, at least not for David. He patted the front pocket of his shirt as he responded to Joey's suggestion, reminding him of the very reason he _did_ find himself in the outlaw life.

"We're not going to Mexico," was David's stance, and it always had been. "They hang bank robbers in Mexico."

"They hang them _here_ , too," Joey supplied. Kyle's hand instinctively went to his throat as he listened to the conversation; when he had signed up for the Kings that wasn't the end he ever considered. He tried to mask his eavesdropping by enthusiastically feeding a sack of oats to Gilbert, but he had been spotted: Andy, keeping silent and preferring to let Joey's frustration and David's rationalizations run their courses, caught sight of Kyle's expression, the young greenhorn looking rather pale over the thought of hanging. He shook his head, trying to make it clear to Kyle that they wouldn't be fitted for rope neckties any time soon.

Just as soon as he did so, David confirmed it, crossing his arms in front of his chest, taking a firm stance on staying as north of the border as will would allow. "We don't get caught here," he reasoned.

"That's because we rob banks for five hundred fucking dollars!" Joey threw up his hands, exasperated that no other Kings were coming to his defense, that no one besides himself thought their skills could be used for bigger and better things. David insisted on small towns that provided all of the publicity but little of the monetary payback. As far as Joey was concerned he could do well to stay out of the newspapers, and would never turn down the opportunity for a bit more spending cash.

Another anxious whinny rose from Gilbert, this time shaking his head out of Kyle's grasp and rearing up in distress, obviously not accustomed to hearing his owner in such a state. Kyle stumbled while trying to regain control, bracing himself against the solid body of the horse, and when he finally managed some composure he felt far more pairs of eyes on him than before, and these eyes happened to be human.

Sheepishly Kyle smiled, and even though he had earned his bones with the Kings he felt mortified among them, wishing Gilbert could give him a swift kick in the back of the head and end his misery. David raised an eyebrow at the young man, reminding Kyle once again of an old Sunday school teacher he had back in California, demanding that if he had something to say, he should present it to the rest of the class. He took in a deep breath, shoulders shrugging on their own accord: if he was really a member of the Kings, he should feel welcome to give his opinion, he thought.

"It's really not that bad, is it?" he asked, hoping his idealism didn't cause him to be called a greenhorn again. He had been riding with the Kings for months now, and he deserved to at least have the green stripped from his title, if not the idea that he was still a kid. "I mean, five hundred doesn't seem like much when you've been getting more, I guess; but any of it's better than nothing. And we did get away this time, isn't that what matters? Wouldn't want to get greedy."

The look that crossed Joey's face told Kyle he probably should have kept his fool mouth shut. "I am not," Joey said defiantly, pointing at Kyle but his words clearly meant for the others. "Getting talked down to by the kid."

Shocked to stillness, Kyle just watched as Joey stomped over, storms of restlessness in his eyes that could not be abated with a simple conversation on the future of the Kings's bank heists. Even his hair seemed more restless and uncontrolled as he approached Kyle, his hand outstretched and impatient.

"Give him the reins, Kyle."

The order came evenly and with no malice towards either of them: his years as the leader of the Kings brought David a sense of diplomacy, or at least the ability to affect the quality in his voice. With one more obliging nod from the outlaw Kyle did as he was told, a confused expression on his face as he presented the reins to Joey. Joey snatched them from his grip, his temper still hot, and with a scowl on his face he quickly mounted and spurred Gilbert into a gallop away from the camp, the trail of dust they left behind nearly glittering in the bright sun.

"You're just going to let him go?" Kyle asked the other outlaws once Joey was out of earshot. Neal continued to drag on his cigarette, watching the distance as if it were an old masters' oil painting, analyzing the brilliance of one brushstroke from the next. Andy set aside the small stack of bank notes reserved for the Kings's supplies, noting the amount in his head in regards to the amount they'd need just to keep them well-fed and well-armed; his own share was less of a concern, though Kyle did notice him tuck the bills into his front shirt pocket for safe keeping. And David did nothing, his own mind swirling with thoughts, staring at his hands and meeting no man in the eye.

"He'll be back," David said finally, crouching to rest upon his saddle in front of a dying fire. 

Kyle couldn't be so sure; he had never seen Joey this frustrated before, even Gilbert was alarmed. It had always been an assumption in the past, but now Kyle realized money--and the lack of it--was a very touchy subject for the outlaw. "How can you be so sure?"

David snickered; for the expert tracker Kyle claimed he was when they first met, he habitually let his emotions cloud simple observation. "He left his share," he said, pointing to Joey's hat still lying on the ground, bills scattered around it like remnants of a sombrero dance. "He'll definitely be back."

The others seemed to be less than disturbed by Joey's charged departure; perhaps this had happened before, and Kyle was the one that was overreacting. This wasn't the first time he had the distinct impression operations within the ranks of the Kings worked slightly differently from the rest of the world. He tossed the currycomb down with the rest of the supplies he used for tending the horses--one of his first purchases with his share of Fox Canyon's loot, he couldn't very well take care of the horses of infamous outlaws without proper equipment--and set himself to rest for a while. Joey would probably be gone all day, letting off steam in whatever manner he could afford, and if they planned to sit around waiting for him Kyle could take his time with his duties. 

Soon enough the topic of conversation turned to Joey's expressed desire to head south, to Mexico: there were, after all, many banks north of the border filled to their timber beams with cash if that was his true motive. "How much you want to bet there's a particular whorehouse near Paso del Norte that's got Joey so keen on gettin' down there?" Andy threw the suggestion out there with a lascivious smile, stretching out beside the fire. Kyle couldn't help but notice the man known for his skill with the mundane conversations of townsfolk was a gleeful gossip himself.

Neal joined in with a sharp laugh, nudging the fire with the toe of his boot, sending sparks sputtering into the air. "More like a betting house," he speculated, Joey's attraction to gambling and his knack for losing not lost on any of them.

"No," David was the voice of clarity, and not even with Joey's absence would he make light of the man. "It ain't either of those." Kyle waited, holding his breath in anticipation, for David to reveal the true reason why Joey wanted to head south, but none came; he wasn't sure if David knew himself, but Kyle was well aware David Cook wasn't a man to push for the answer. "Joey's got his reasons; it's best we leave them to him."

It was clear to all four Kings, however, that leaving Joey to his own reasons meant waiting around camp until he discovered them on his own and dutifully returned. No one knew how long that would take; Joey wasn't the fastest steed in the herd. After another long stretch of his slim frame, Andy rose to his feet; no sense sitting around counting the horseflies when there were things to do and money to spend. "Might as well get some supplies," he announced, pausing to crack the joints in his fingers and locate his hat. "Saw a town about two hours west of here. Could use some more cornmeal, and matches..." He rubbed at his chin, frowning at the coarse bristle he felt underneath his fingertips, some of the stubble thick enough to grow in soft; he'd have a prospector's beard in no time if he kept this up. "And I think I could do for a shave."

He received a nod of approval from David, fully aware that their reserves on some food were running low. Neal agreed for a different reason. "Good," he chimed in, already making his way towards the horses. "I need to get new soles for these boots." He tapped his boots, a well-worn red leather perfectly molded to his feet for comfort over the years, the soles underneath showing scuffs and ragged edges that were worse for the wear.

"You're doing what now?" Andy shook his head; yes, Neal could use new soles, and God knows he'd never trade in his beloved red boots for a new pair, those shoes had seen more of the West than the railroads had. But he hadn't properly surveyed the town, only took a cursory glance as they had passed it in the early morning, and wasn't comfortable with the Dr. giving himself free reign. "It's too dangerous, the place could be a shanty town for lawmen, we don't know. It's better if you stay here."

"You are a little far from inconspicuous, Tiemann," chimed in David, watching with amusement as the two outlaws sparred with words, almost like a dance. This was more fun than a gunslingers' show, and cheaper, too.

Despite the warning Neal continued over to his horse, only stopping when Andy appeared before him, making his protest more weighty, and physical. "I can disguise myself," he argued, though the moment he said those words the look on Andy's face told him it was easier said than done.

A smirk crossed Andy's lips, his eyes narrowed; he wouldn't have minded the company, especially not from Neal, but the idea that he could disguise himself enough to walk into a town in broad daylight was near laughable. He pointed to Neal's hands and wrists, an accusing finger leading up the arm to indicate all of Neal's tattoos. Gifts and ceremonial markings from the Creek tribe that had taken in the young orphaned Neal, the ink along his flesh told his past and his future, from the Celtic armband to always remind him he was never a full-blooded member of the tribe to the letters along his knuckles, characters meant to represent the fleetingness of life. Each marking meant the world to Neal but they also proved to be dead giveaways to his identity, his tattoos gracing more wanted posters than even his face.

Neal scrutinized what could be seen of his hands and wrists, his arms carefully covered by a long-sleeved shirt. He shrugged, determined to at least put up a good fight. "I have gloves," he said, and to make his point he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his pants, rendering his knuckles a non-issue.

But with a raise of an eyebrow Andy stepped it up a notch. Reaching out, his arm closed the gap between them and he laid his palm flat against the side of Neal's neck, the hand barely covering the large tattoo he found there. Neal wanted to frown but his mind was on far more pleasant things than a fake argument, Andy's skin touching his more welcome than he had perceived, and he steeled himself not to lean into the touch, not when David and Kyle were watching.

"I'll wear a fucking neckerchief," he argued through clenched teeth.

The hand retreated, and for but a moment Neal thought he had won their tiny battle. A smile began to form on his lips, self-satisfied and cocky, confident that in another moment Andy would step down and give him full access to his horse, and they could ride off together properly and he could _finally_ get his boots re-soled.

But something suddenly caused his smile to stop on its way to the corners of his mouth, dropping his face down into an expression of defeat mixed with lust. Andy pressed his finger against Neal's mouth, silencing any words of celebration Neal was apt to have, and in the process indicating one of the many marks on Neal's body that he couldn't possibly hide. His touch moved swiftly from one curve of the bottom lip to the other, making a point to run over the silver rings pierced into Neal's flesh there, two other physical memories from his childhood with the Creek. There were very few white men with such piercings in the country, and only the one standing before the Kings, his heartbeat rising as Andy toyed with slipping his finger inside his mouth, was also a wanted outlaw.

A scowl against that intruding finger was Neal's only response, unable to come up with yet another alternative for his rather obvious features, his silence a grim concession that Andy had won their little argument. Down yet not out, Neal spoke to a higher authority, Andy's fingers still pressed against his moving lips, the stare between them so intense Kyle was almost afraid to consider the possibilities of what might happen next. "Dave..." Neal asked his friend for a final ruling; David had been watching the entire argument with amusement, palm half-covering his mouth not to offend the warring parties. He looked at them both non-committally, shrugging his shoulders and tipping his hat low over his brow.

"I'm not your mother," he said, waving them off to settle the matter themselves. He reclined against his saddle, propping his heels up against a stone and making himself comfortable, allowing whatever fireworks sparked between Andy and Neal to fizzle out or burst on their own accord. Neal considered David's dismissive statement to be his consent to continue on his pleasant way towards the town; Andy believed his words meant that Neal must provide his own judgment on the matter, which, if he had been thinking logically that morning instead of preoccupied with his damn boots, he'd come to the conclusion that it just wasn't safe, it wasn't tested, and he'd respectfully step down. Andy himself, however, was too logical and too smart to think that Neal's stubbornness would _ever_ let him step down from this fight.

And Kyle, who had also been watching the argument and tried to erase from his mind the images of Neal and Andy after Fox Canyon triggered by their exchange, took David's remarks as a _carte-blanche_ for the outlaws: so long as they had to wait for Joey, they could wait, but it didn't necessarily have to be in one spot. He handed over the reins to Neal and Andy without requesting David's approval, the leader of the group already expecting the pair to hash out their disagreement however they so chose during their ride.

What he did look to David for an answer was for his own departure, a hopeful, expectant expression on his face, hands inching their way towards Gangles's saddle. Kyle ached with the enthusiasm of wanderlust in his blood; he wanted the luxury of walking into a town with the purpose only to explore, and to enjoy whatever anonymity still remained for him.

But David's response was less than appealing; in fact, it had not even been an answer. "You should check Sugarfoot's shoes once you're done giving her a good brush." David had a way about his tone, a charisma that made an order sound like a suggestion, a demand more like a request. Kyle's expectant smile fell from his face at these words; he knew they were no request, and would not entertain the possibility of declining. "She felt like she was favoring her right side on the ride last night, might be something stuck on the left."

"But--" Kyle tried to protest, but a stern glance from David shot him down. If Kyle truly wanted to be considered a full-fledged member of the Kings, he had to continue to be useful; each man had their place in their outfit, their own particular duties, and David wasn't allowing the kid to overlook his just for a little daytrip.

"You do what you're here to do." A distressed wave of Gangles's tail, the foul, dusty hairs hitting Kyle in the face as an added insult, only worked to prove David's point: there were still horses who were filthy and tired from their restless journey away from Jackson, and it would be a disservice to all the Kings, never mind the poor horses, if Kyle left without finishing the job.

With a sigh he wistfully watched the two figures on horseback ride towards the town, the faint sound of Neal and Andy's voices still playfully bantering back and forth, lobbing well-intentioned potshots to one another. He recalled the spark in Neal's eyes when Andy had pressed his palm to Neal's neck, his finger to his lips; maybe it was better if he didn't tag along on their day trip, he might prove to be more of an unwelcome guest than a third partner. But the wad of bank notes from the heist hung heavily in his pocket, reminding him that he had never felt that kind of weight before he had met the Kings, and that his good fortune certainly needed to be passed on. Other than feed for Gangles and himself, and perhaps a new hat every now and again, Kyle didn't have many expenses while on the plains, but he knew of someone else that could find a better use for the cash.

"Andy-- hey, Andy!" he called to the retreating figures, and pulled out the stack of bank notes as the riders stopped, the chestnut mare doubling back to the camp. "Could you..." he asked with trepidation. "If there's a telegraph station in town, could you have this wired over to the Peek ranch? Orange County, California, if they need something direct."

He looked unsure of his own request, not certain if sending the large amount would be a worthy favor, or even if showing off that kind of cash would set off dangers in an unknown town. But Andy took the money regardless, looking through the uncertainty to Kyle's earnestness, the determination to send this money to someone who needed it. "Yeah, of course," he replied, eyes sincere, tucking the money away in his boot for safekeeping.

"It's just..." Kyle stammered, quickly trying to explain himself, his insecurities weaving into his tone like oil polluting a river. "It's chicken hatching season on the ranch, and I'm not there this year to help, and -"

Andy stopped his flow of words with a soft chuckle, shaking his head that the kid could still be so shy around them after months. "Shut up, Kyle," he admonished playfully, before spurring Vera back onto the trail to catch up with his traveling companion, shouting with amusement that even if Neal did find some way to conceal all that made him uniquely identifiable, his beloved white-and-black speckled horse Sixx would stick out among a sea of beasts, like a massive peacock in a henhouse.

"Hey, you can rag on the tattoos and rings all you want," Neal warned, and Andy knew that only he would receive a warning for insulting Sixx; anyone else would have been knocked out of their saddle by now, by a fist or even a bullet. "But lay off my goddamn horse."

Normally David took any opportunity to enjoy banter between the two, knowing that it was all in fun; it was probably the most affection they allowed themselves to show in the light of day, despite all they cared for each other at night. But Kyle's request stayed with him in his mind, quieting his amusement. He had only assumed Kyle became an outlaw to escape a life of drudgery on someone else's ranch, not his own.

Once the others were out of earshot, their figures like inkblots on the horizon, blurring from the heat, Kyle continued his explanation, finding David a more receptive audience than Gangles and Sugarfoot. "See, it's chicken hatching season on the ranch," he began again, a smile unwittingly stretching across his face as he spoke about home. "And if they haven't already hired someone to help, they're gonna need to--"

"The ranch you left," David interrupted, having little patience for Kyle's ramblings. "Is _your_ ranch?"

The sudden question was unexpected; it took a second of hesitation for Kyle to respond, with a nostalgia for his homeland he didn't even know existed in him. "My brother's," he qualified, though they had both matured with the same air in their lungs, the same ground and grass below their feet. But the Peek ranch had never been his. "Our father willed the ranch to him; I stuck around a few years to help out, damn well knew he needed it." He grinned, remembering his childhood on those very hills, learning the ways of their animals and their soil with his younger brother, who cared only for the land within the Peek ranch's fences while Kyle yearned for anything but. "It's what a brother's gotta do, right?"

Kyle flashed an expectant smile but he only received a cold, damning stare in return, and realized he couldn't have uttered worse words to David Cook if he had tried. A darkness seemed to cloud over David's face, thoughts running through his mind, empty wishes he used to have that he would give anything just to work on some barren, two-bit ranch with his brother again. Kyle wished for anything but that emotionless stare, the sudden coldness from David that he had learned was more dangerous than a rage.

"Why'd you ever leave it, then?! You had a family." Lips suddenly curling into a snarl, David snapped at Kyle, his anger hiding something deeper. "You _have_ a family. Why don't you just go _back_ to it, kid?"

"You want to know why the ranch went to my younger brother instead of me!?" he asked; David's shock overpowered his anger, surprised at the emphatic response from a man who was usually timid when faced with aggression. This was Kyle's verbal equivalent of a horse stampede. "Because _I didn't want it._ I always knew I wanted something more out of life than sitting at home, wondering what the rest of the world was like. What it feels like to _be alive_. I wasn't meant for that kind of life."

"And you think you're meant for what?" David waved his hand around the camp, at the dying fire and their filthy, irritated horses; at their solitude. "For this?"

"Yes--"

"That's funny," he said, though there was no hint of amusement on his face. "Because I'm not."

He rose to his feet; this was a conversation David felt they needed to have eye to eye. To think that anyone was meant for the life of an outlaw, constantly on the run from enemies unknown and never seen; living from heist to heist, the saddle your only home. Killing, or being foolish or empty enough to be killed. Theirs was a dangerous, lonely life, meant only for those looking to hurl themselves fast into an early grave. It wasn't what David had ever wanted for himself, and he didn't want that life for Kyle, either.

"I didn't choose to do this," he began, the fighting tone gone from his voice, disappeared into the wind like vapor. "I didn't wake up one day and decide to leave the only home I ever knew, the only family I--" he stopped himself, his voice choking on his own emotions. "This is the sort of road you take...when you have nothing else to live for."

This didn't sound like the headstrong, rational leader of the Kings Kyle had grown to call a friend in the past few months; this wasn't the ruthless, confident outlaw they wrote about in the papers, carving his way through the West with an expert revolver and a large helping of what the Mexican expatriates called " _cohones_ ". Kyle had learned there were many different facets to David Cook's personality: the calm, collected outlaw that made townsfolk all over the West look over their shoulders with fear, the open and loyal friend who was quick to brighten the mood with a laugh. But those parts of David didn't prepare Kyle for what he saw that day: a man who had seen and done more destruction than he ever imagined, wearing him down over the years. He had outlived many of his enemies, and a good number of allies, and now David Cook was _tired_.

But Kyle remembered there had been one thing David kept as a token of hope, to prove to himself that there wasn't _nothing_ in his world still worth saving. "But you have Kelly," he said, recalling his conversations with Andy over shooting lessons--because it seemed once you dangled a reasonable topic before Andy Skib, the outlaw would never shut up about it. He had said that Kelly had become David's reason; that she was the family he lost, and longed to have.

Unexpectedly a wide grin spread across David's face; only a few people in the world knew about his romance with the banker's daughter in Burleson, and he didn't count Kyle Peek as one of them. The light in his eyes asked the question before his voice could find the words. "Andy told me," Kyle answered with a shrug, though the other man had only gone into the generalities of their love story out of respect for David.

"I should have expected as much," David replied with a short laugh, shaking his head. Andy would certainly have never given up the chance to gossip, but with Kelly's letters in David's pocket as obvious as buckshot to the gut, he knew it would come up with Kyle eventually. If David had a nickel for every question the kid had asked him over the past few months, they could stop robbing banks entirely. "I gotta tell Andy to shut his mouth one of these days."

The outlaw's laughter was infectious, and Kyle's mood seamlessly transitioned from being on the defensive back to the secure feeling of being among partners, friends. Kyle thought Andy wasn't particularly a noisy fellow--that title deservedly belonged to Joey, who, much like the shotgun of his trade, demanded his presence known with loud bursts of laughter and sound. But he did remember an instance of noise, one soft, unmistakable moan in the dark outside Fox Canyon that he could never erase from his memory, not for lack of trying. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he had time to filter them; it was never wise to reveal everything you knew, but Kyle was never blessed with heaps of wisdom, as it was.

"Well, then you gotta tell Neal not to--"

His mind thankfully caught up with his tongue, mouth hanging open with the rest of the sentence swallowed back in his throat, eyes wide like a startled stag. He didn't know if David was aware of Neal and Andy's unique relationship, or if even they were aware of it beyond a physical bond, oblivious to the intimacy that seeped into every action and movement, evident to Kyle now that he knew what to see. But perhaps he should have kept this secret just that, realizing that very little good and a wagon's worth of bad could come from revealing it. He couldn't even fathom the levels of trust he might have just broken, what further damage he could have done if he had finished that offhand comment.

But Kyle saw no shock in David's expression, no surprise or the tell-tale signs of a shocking revelation about his two best friends. The lift of one eyebrow was the only sign he had even heard Kyle's misstep, the smirk on his lips an indication that he understood, before he broke out into a knowing smile, words unnecessary. With the slightest of nods David told Kyle all that he had to know: the secret of Andy and Neal's true intimacy was a poorly kept one, least of all from the friend who rode alongside them for the past six years. An observant man like Kyle would notice the closeness between them, if not other things. David mused that perhaps not Kyle's skill, his first heist, or even his courage during their first meeting marked him as a true member of the Kings, but this, the sharing of the outlaws' secrets, did.

Perhaps Kyle deserved to hear another King's secret as well.

"Kelly's...really something," David said, after Kyle noted that Andy insisted on only mentioning her in conversation, never delving deep out of respect for David's history. "We were only in Burleson five days, but..." A flash of memory like wispy clouds in the desert: soft, Texan-tanned skin against his, hours spent tetherless, running past creek and field, Kelly always three steps ahead and David always seeking to catch her. "...it was enough to fall in love."

He recounted his first glances of her, the brazen lady of the Breakaway Saloon; the poker game and his first night with her, how she held back nothing when she was with him, from the way she masterfully won over their money to her knowledge of the outlaws' true natures, to how she made love. Kyle soaked in the story, eager to see the side of David Cook that few knew existed, the sweet, romantic heart beating deep within an outlaw molded by glory and legend. He didn't know if he'd ever meet Kelly Clarkson--and no one knew if even David would get the chance again--but Kyle sure hoped this wasn't the end to their story.

"When we left town," David concluded, his voice lowering with the curve of the sun's path, his tale long and detailed but never tiring. "About two hours out, I found these in my shirt pocket; she must've hidden them there sometime the night before." He snickered, remembering how Kelly boasted she could probably swipe the longhorns off a bull, thanks to her many years of sneaking past her father's caring yet unwatchful eye. That had to have been the fourth night they were together, when the evening skies threatened rain but only left a sweet sheen of dew against the cactus thorns the next morning. By that time David had already decided he would leave her.

Reaching into that very shirt pocket, David pulled out his prize: three playing cards from a deck long forgotten, each card yellowed at the edges, their red and black dyes fading from age. The three face cards stared at Kyle as he gaped back at them, their mirror images stark and easily identified. He could tell immediately that these cards could have never come from any of the throwaway decks the outlaws bought from general stores along their travels.

"The three kings," Kyle marveled, instantly remembering the tale of Kelly's prophetic poker hand their first night in town. They were like relics in David's hand, like the sharks' teeth and whalebones some travelers carried with them, mementos of their adventures and the creatures that almost did them in. Very rarely do those beautiful creatures hand men their souvenirs of their own volition. He reached out tentatively, as if they were illusions of the heat playing tricks on the both of them, but with a wide smile David held them out and they were _there,_ they were real, and in their rough card stock Kyle felt he now knew their entire love story, and knew Kelly as well.

They were David's most prized possessions, above any of the riches the Kings amassed on their heists, above even the revolver that saved his life on more occasions than he'd like to admit. But it was the cards that first gave him a reason again to save that damned life of his, to give him drive and purpose to reach for something at the end of that horizon. Dozens of king cards had passed through his hands in recent years, in poker games and bank robberies alike, but these three he would never let out of his sight.

"I started leaving these at each job, once the newspapers started reporting more on us," he explained. "Thought, maybe she'd read about us somewhere, notice that I was still around. That's when the rags couldn't get enough of us, started calling us the Kings." He grinned, forever amused at the irony that one little card shark from some tiny town in Texas gave the noted outlaws their namesake, that had thousands all over the West fearing their name.

It was also the reason Kyle even knew about the outlaws he revered and now considered his friends. The exploits of the Kings were well documented, though no man could ever track them down and live to collect the bounty, and no one ever suspected the location of their next target. Kyle had traced paths of their heists from Oklahoma through California, beseeching any traveler on the road for the weekly paper or any news of the outlaws blown in by the wind. The fenced-in nature of the Peek ranch made him long for the outside world; the dimestore novels he read voraciously made him want the thrill and adventure of the outlaw life. And those small calling cards made him want to be a King.

"It wasn't right for me to leave her." The light Kyle saw on David's face flickered and dimmed as the outlaw returned the cards to their safe-keeping, his eyes on the ground but his thoughts certainly trained elsewhere. With all the talk of his short time with Kelly, the intense courtship that burned hot and quickly--burned like money burns, Kyle thought--the truth behind David's lovestruck story loomed in their faces, the very fact that he was here, out in the middle of nowhere after yet another heist, and she was still in Burleson, waiting patiently for another letter from her outlaw. If it were Kyle weaving this yarn, bending and shaping it to his own will towards a happy ending, David would have never left the pretty young card shark, would have settled and carved out a life for himself down there and, in the most poignant of ironies as every yarn required, the bank robber would have reformed his ways to become the banker's son-in-law.

But this wasn't Kyle's story to tell, and it was no make-believe; this was David's life, or at least, it _had_ been.

David watched his hands as they clasped together, almost on their own accord, trying not to recall the way her skin yielded to the touch of those hands, how they caressed her with both lust and affection; how they longed to put a ring on a hand of her own. "Especially since that last man had left her; wasn't even worthy to lick the horseshit off her boots." He and Kelly had, for five glorious days and five nights he never wanted to end, been young and in love, but it hadn't been the time, for either of them, and they both knew it even when Kelly asked him to stay and David took that moment to consider it.

He had needed to find that reason to keep striving, fill the void left by his satisfied revenge; David hadn't fully realized Kelly would be that for him until he had left. And now, he might have gone too far to ever come back.

Kyle watched the uncertainty creep up on David's features from its hiding place among the blood and bones in his body. He couldn't tell why David had left--that secret stayed with the outlaw, and perhaps would until he cast out his last breath--but he definitely knew a thing or two about leaving the ones you loved. More than a dozen times Kyle's instincts had told him to turn back to home, aching for the love and familiarity he would find there, away from a harsh life on the road. But more than a dozen times he pressed on, knowing that, while he may always call the Peek ranch home, he was meant to experience more. Perhaps David's anger over Kyle leaving his brother at the Peek ranch wasn't completely displaced.

"You had your reasons," he repeated the words David had said himself about Joey, giving a warm smile and a nod. "We all do. And you can keep those to yourself...if you think it's best."

That sincerity garnered a true smile from David's lips; he hadn't been sure that anyone would understand his reasons; not even Neal and Andy, who, for them, freedom, love, and family were all synonymous. He had considered Kyle a plucky, welcome addition to the close-knit gang of outlaws, and a damn useful horse hand that could master even the finicky Sugarfoot, but perhaps now David could even consider him a friend.

"There's just one thing I gotta know." David looked up to see Kyle building up his courage with both hands, the amused smirk on his young face a sign he was no longer afraid to speak his mind. An arched eyebrow told him to continue, and Kyle's eyes narrowed. "Did you ever end up robbing her father's bank?"


	9. Chapter 9

_**Five years ago** _

 

They came to David with the plan on the fourth day in Texas, Neal already irritated by their inactivity and Andy unable to switch off his observational skills, naturally gravitating towards town gossip that could be skewed in the outlaws' advantage. David wasn't the only one in Burleson who had been busy.

"The structure's flimsy as fuck," Andy began, scratching out a crude schematic of the building on a discarded napkin with charcoal. The others gathered around it in the small boarding room in the Breakaway Saloon, their voices hushed and the door locked and bolted. "About twenty years old; looks like it was built up real quick to serve its purpose, probably always meant to be renovated and replaced but nothing ever came of it."

Buildings falling into disrepair, once easily solved nuisances now becoming gaping holes in security...these details weren't new to the outlaws' experiences with small-town banks. But this bank, David thought darkly, was the only one he could put a face with its facade, a name to its owner, and thought that perhaps the grief of losing his wife added with the burden of caring for a daughter over the years contributed to the banker never getting around to crucial repairs.

"Weak points are here, here, and all along this wall," Andy pointed to marks of interest on the paper, the oil lamp glowing dimly in the windowless room, the three men opting for a low light so as not to cause suspicion for anyone scrutinizing the cracks below the door. One could never be too careful. "Really a good kick to the right spot could send the whole wall crumbling."

"We wouldn't even have to go in through the door this time," Neal ribbed, playfully poking an elbow in David's side in an attempt to get a rise out of the other man, to no avail. If he could keep his eyes trained to the drawing in Andy's hand, not look either of them in the eye, he might be able to get through this.

Sensing no comment from David, Andy continued, his deep brown eyes noting the repressed look on David's face, knowing from his expertise that he was holding something back. "Security's also a joke," he said, and this time even Neal could tell his eyes were on David's face, gauging his inaudible reactions. "The safe's a bolt lock; it's opened by a key instead of combination. We don't even need the owner for this; hell, a teller could probably do the job for us."

David crossed his arms in front of his chest, appearing in deep thought, though all that could possibly run through his head at the moment was Kelly's sultry voice, the way she tickled at his tattoo and played with the pendant around his neck as they lay in bed, stating casually that her father owned Burleson's bank. He didn't need that moment to contemplate how they could pull off this heist; he needed the time to make excuses why they couldn't. "We've hung around too long," he settled upon, hoping neither man would note that it was because of David and his burgeoning love affair that they had stayed in Burleson for this long. "Someone'll figure out it was us."

It was Neal that spoke up, having gone over the preliminary plans for a heist with Andy in David's amorous absence. "Cowhands and cattle rustlers run through this town every day," he explained; he had watched the daily phenomenon with his own eyes one morning when the boarding room he and Andy shared felt too suffocating and his lungs ached for the open air. Along the outskirts of the town cattle were herded northward like an approaching storm cloud of activity across the horizon, thousands of moving bodies manned by dutiful ranchers and cowboys, though they were never so loyal to their duties to refuse a quick drink at the Breakaway. Neal silently watched them all enter the saloon, wet their throats, dry from the tireless range, then leave, and never did he see the same face twice. "They'll think we just came and went along with them; no one's going to notice."

"We've already blown our cover here," David tried a different approach, pointing in Andy's direction. "They already know we're with you. No one's ever supposed to know that." They had been more than cautious in the towns they planned to hit, making sure Andy could do his job as the unrecognizable shadow by never being seen with him, meeting only to discuss his findings in the dark of night, far on the outskirts and away from prying ears. But in Burleson they had been careless, foolish; their egos still coasted off a rather exceptional heist and they overlooked their typical routine to celebrate. Organizing a heist in town was an afterthought, one that David believed could threaten their lives.

But Andy shook his head, his observations throughout the week stronger and more objective than David's misdirected instincts. "Aside from the travelers here, there are only fifty regulars in town, maybe. No one outside of these streets is going to make a stink about the bank getting robbed. I don't really see some journalist coming here to report on a town no one's going to care about -"

"Some people do care about it," David's protest was louder than he expected it to be, with a sudden, vicious bite to his tone that startled Andy, his body backing away on instinct. "And for someone who pays so much attention to people, you sure don't seem to give a shit about them."

"Hey," came the swift and gruff warning from Neal, stepping in between the two and staring David down carefully. Neal was no peacemaker--he was usually on the other end of the argument with David, and Andy was the one to step in and quickly neutralize the fight--but he wouldn't let this get out of hand, and David knew for all the loyalty Neal had for him in the world, he would always choose Andy's side. He only had to look in those ice blue eyes, Neal's stare solids and unafraid, for his temper to cool, and take a more rational approach to the outlaws' information.

Neal and Andy had made valid points, ones that even David's foolish heart could agree to. The bank would be an easy target, with no other city or town for miles for others to report the crime. And if Andy spoke the truth about the shoddy conditions of the bank--as he always did, David had never found a moment yet where he was wrong--then this would be one of the simplest heists they'd ever had.

The only thing stopping him...was her.

"I for one could use the cash," added Neal, hands in his empty pockets. "I'm cleaned out, between the price of drinks here and your woman running away with our poker games -"

"She's not my -" David blurted out before he stopped himself; he had found it near automatic to deny Kelly was his woman, though deep in his heart it was all he desired. He bit at his lower lip, drawing it in between his teeth and nursing that pain. Regardless of what he felt in his heart, and the kind of love he saw in Kelly's eyes when she looked at him, when she smiled, he still found his first instinct was to deny her; to be the outlaw, not the lover.

He shook his head, trying to will away the doubt seeping in from everywhere, about everything. He had been riding with Andy and Neal for more than a year now, the two men being his only constant companions since taking revenge on the lawman that wronged him, and the only men he had allowed himself to trust with his life. They all looked out for each other on the open plain, shared the joyful, dizzying highs of a heist as well as the terrifying thrill of a gunfight, of the chase. They had become like family to him; they deserved better than churlish insults and feeble protests against a well-organized plan. But she also deserved better from him; perhaps that was why he was protesting in the first place.

"It's a good plan," he conceded, giving them an apologetic look, the tension that had quickly rose among them just as easily departing. "It's better than good, really; the bank's all but gift-wrapped for us. I feel like we should leave a thank-you note." David ran his fingers through his hair nervously, the hand wandering like a fidgety child trying to find a place of comfort; it finally rested on the pendant around his neck, tied with a worn leather cord, the flat, silver disc with a punch the shape of a star feeling cold against his fingertips, a numb kind of pain. His mother had given it to him when he was a boy, a relic from her own father's military uniform; the only thing left of the Cook family besides David's memories. Kelly always seemed to gravitate towards it, fingers idly tracing the edges of the star, warming it with her touch. 

David quickly yanked his fingers away, feeling the sting of the cord around his neck. Those kinds of memories weren't helping matters any.

With a look of concern Andy folded up the napkin, a thumb rubbing away the charcoal schematic into an indiscernible, untraceable blur. "We don't have to do this," he offered; the plan itself could dissolve away as easily as the drawing had, if David so wished. "There'll be other towns. There will be easier jobs."

"But if she's not your woman," Neal said, and the words alone shot like a bullet into David's heart. "Then there's no reason not to go along with it. We can't skip out on every town we get a liking to." Neal looked around at their sparse, windowless quarters at the Breakaway, the cramped feeling of the entire small town leaving him ill at ease. Perfect for plotting a heist, yes, or to find a warm, dry alternative to sleeping on the ground, but certainly not a place to stay. "And honestly, I haven't even gotten much of that around here."

Andy and Neal fell silent, their gazes set on David; he was the one who gained a liking for Burleson, for one crucial element of the town, and he was the one who must make the decision whether to rob that cozy town of its fortune.

***

"Those friends of yours are thinking of robbing my daddy's bank."

Kelly already knew before David said a word to her that day. Of course she knew, he figured; bird's got to fly, fish got to swim. Bank robbers have to do what they do best. "I can see it in their movements; they've become more guarded today, like they're hiding something." She raised an eyebrow at David, her brusque observations a stark contrast to the soft curve of her lips. David didn't know which one to fear more. "But they drop that look when they're around you."

She was right, of course; Neal and Andy were hiding the outlaws' plans from the rest of the town, unaccustomed to doing so in the light of day, surrounded by the very happy, unsuspecting townsfolk they intended to rob. In terms of reading people, finding their tells and deciphering more about them, Kelly could teach Andy a thing or two. "What makes you think -" he began, but she cut him off, too wise to be coddled.

"Don't try to fool me," she said coyly, her voice low and sultry. "I knew you and your boys were bank robbers the minute you walked into the Breakaway." She was the slyest he had ever seen her, slinking up to his frame, her lips holding secrets as her fingers found their way to his pendant once again. After only five days of being with David, Kelly thought she knew all there was to discover about him; she even thought she knew how he would respond to her words. "But you're not gonna let them rob this bank, are you," she challenged, confident smile emerging on her face, aiming for his own mouth to confirm her suspicions.

The conversation David had with Neal and Andy earlier burned in his mind, hotter than the touch of Kelly's hand on his chest could warm the worn silver piece. He loved her, this much he knew: he had never felt this way about any other woman, always finding something lacking in others. He felt he could share anything with her, and she would take it in her understanding, compassionate stride, and in turn he wanted to give her the world.

But what kind of world did he have to offer? He had been a fugitive for years, adding crimes and robberies to the tally that no one, not even David himself, could count. Even now, the number of bounty hunters looking for the reward money he would fetch was uncertain, or the lawmen who sought his head for reasons beyond mere cash. He would never want to bring Kelly into that life of danger, or leave her behind to be found and terrorized by a lawman...like his own family had been. He couldn't entertain the thought of staying, for her sake as well as his own; he would have liked to say he could leave before he got too attached, fell too deeply in love with her, but he would be fooling no one.

He focused on his own thoughts in that moment, on the conflict between his desires and his identity that no one else would understand, not Neal and Andy; not even Kelly. Kelly, however, focused on the moment itself, and the silence that met her confident question.

Her face fell, her fingers slipping away from his chest as she backed up. "You hesitated," she said, her voice wavering. David tried to reach for her, retain that physical contact as his mind raced, to formulate some kind of explanation, but she cared for none of it, taking even more steps away from him. If she went any farther her back would have hit the door. "You hesitated," she repeated, her voice stronger this time.

David tried to defend himself, if only to wash away the pained expression on Kelly's face, a look of betrayal. Though his decision on the heist wasn't clear to anyone, including himself, the one thing he could be certain was that he never wanted to hurt her. "Let me explain," he began, trying to keep his own tone calm in the face of Kelly's ever-rising voice.

"Explain this: are you, or are you not, robbing the damn bank?" She was getting louder without even noticing it, her hands curling into frustrated fists at her sides, vision slowly blurring from confusion and hurt. Perhaps five days was not enough to know everything she could about this man; he was surprising her, and not in a particularly good way.

In came that moment of hesitation once more; Kelly had no idea, David thought, how difficult this decision was to make. "I...don't know," he answered; even when facing accusing questions like this, he realized he could never lie to her.

It was certainly not the answer Kelly expected to hear. "How could you not know?!" She felt a tightness in her throat, emotions running fast through her veins; that's what it was with David Cook, she realized, the outlaw who had stolen her heart and now wished to steal even more. Every emotion was at full power with him, whether it be comfort or lust or now, even anger. She felt so strongly for him, all of the time, that all of this feeling was going to make her burst.

"You've said you've killed people before," she recalled their first night together, David's guilty confessions on why he wasn't good enough for her, why she deserved more. But she didn't want more, she wanted only this, only them, together. "Would you do it here?"

Kelly's words hit a nerve; David's tone turned harsh, and more serious than it had been before. "That's not fair," he argued. Killing wasn't something he was in any way proud of. There was only one man he had been pleased to shoot: the lawman who David tracked down and forced a death upon him fitting to his character, and even then the consequences of that haunted him to this day. "I only -"

"Would you kill my father??" She was shouting now, her voice strained, the words burning her throat as they escaped her mouth. Kelly realized her vision blurred not from anger, but from hot tears springing to her eyes.

"No! I wouldn't!" David protested, but as soon as the words left his lips he regretted it; he couldn't bring himself to lie to her. Those other men he had already killed: bankers, bounty hunters...they very easily could have been someone's father, someone's family. They had not been Kelly's family, specifically, but that had never mattered until now, and by the principle of his profession, it still should not. He took in a deep breath, his heart aching at the sight of the woman he loved in such distress, through his own fault. "It usually doesn't get to that point," he reasoned truthfully, already knowing it would never be an acceptable compromise.

Kelly shook her head, refusing to let the tears in her eyes fall. "That's not an answer."

Something in David's eyes turned then, a sadness he hadn't experienced for the past few blissful days, since he had met Kelly. "It usually doesn't get to that point," he repeated, his voice softer, laced with experience beyond his young years in a field no one should have known. "But if your father caused trouble, or if he threatened us in any way..." He had to look away when he said it, couldn't bear to watch the heartbreaking look cross her face. "...I wouldn't hesitate to shoot. Who he is to you wouldn't make a difference."

He expected to hear sobbing from across the room, the bedroom where they first made love; he expected to have a chair or something equally effective hurled at his head from his remark. But he underestimated the woman, as he had vowed never to do after she fairly earned all of his betting cash and identified them as bank robbers: only a deep silence penetrated the air, and when he finally found the courage to look up her arms were crossed at her chest, deep in thought. He should have known Kelly Clarkson would not have handled this argument like some harmless prairie girl.

"You said you were never meant for this life."

When Kelly broke the silence suffocating them both, her voice was low and deliberate, ineffectively trying to hide how she felt. She brought them both back to that first night, when they had revealed more to each other than just their bodies, thoughts and fears that David had never told anyone else. It was a sentiment he assumed Neal and Andy had already guessed, but he had never said it aloud before he met Kelly. "You said you wanted to settle down, live a real life."

"More than anything," he stressed. David felt it in his heart but it felt off somehow; talking and dreaming about living a normal life, having a home of his own, was one thing, but having it dangled in front of him was quite another. He found that life tempting and at the same time terrifying.

"Then stay here!" Like a bullet shot from a revolver Kelly launched herself into David's arms from across the room, imploring him, the warmth of her arms around him and body next to his doing more to convince him than her words. "We could get a place somewhere in town, money wouldn't be a problem at all. I bet Daddy could even get you a job at the bank, a real job. You could finally put me in a skirt," she joked.

All the happy, optimistic ideas that Kelly meant to convince him to turn his back on his life of crime only sent him deeper into a cloud of doubt. What she described was her world, her future; it wasn't his. As much as David wanted the simple life, he couldn't see it agreeing with him, not at this time. Not in Burleson.

"Kelly," he breathed, inhaling her scent, memorizing every inch of her because he feared he soon would not have the luxury to do so. Two hands pressed against his chest, Kelly's fingers curling into his shirt and wrapping themselves around the pendant at his throat as she looked up into his eyes, her own hazel ones earnest, desperate to hold on. He wanted to hold her forever like this, in this one moment; he didn't want to have to decide.

" _David_ ," she whispered back; she saw the love in his eyes but there was also something deeper, a darker force clouding the usually bright, clear gray Kelly couldn't get enough of. It was something indecipherable to her, this doubt; perhaps she didn't know David Cook as well as she wanted. "You can stop being an outlaw. You can stop running away."

His body stiffened, Kelly's suggestion turning him cold. He had flung himself into the outlaw life wholeheartedly, riding with Andy and Neal, taking their petty thievery to an entirely new level of risk and reward. He couldn't just as easily pull himself out again, not when so much trust had been built among the three men during their time on the open plain. Although David felt confident that if he left his outlaw life behind tonight his partners in crime would survive without him, he hesitated. He had grown so close to them, almost finding a fraternal replacement for his family with them; David possibly needed Neal and Andy more than they needed him. He couldn't just leave them out of the blue, and he knew they weren't as keen on settling down and forging roots as David had always been.

And yes, he was running away: away from the bounty hunters and lawmen on his tail ever since he exacted his revenge for his family's tragedy, away from the haunting guilt of surviving that never lifted even after he put that lawman into his grave. But he also felt he was running towards something, heading head-first towards a purpose that had died along with his family, a journey towards the man he should and will become instead of the man that he was today. David couldn't be the docile family man Kelly wanted, not now; he wasn't yet the man he wanted to be for her.

"I love you," he said, reassuring the both of them of the one thing he knew in his mind to be true.

Kelly released a relieved sigh at the words as she allowed herself to be pulled closer into David's embrace. "I love you too," the sentence came so naturally, the sentiment all she could think about for the past week, as she rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. They remained in their embrace, the sun setting deep into the Texas clouds and casting imposing shadows throughout the room, neither party wishing to move and break the peace they had found with one another. It would have to end sometime, their argument solidified that in David's mind, but he didn't want it to end now. Please, he thought, kissing the top of her head, don't let it end now.

"Promise me," Kelly's voice was shaky, uncertain that David would comply. "Promise me that you'll stay. That you won't rob the bank, for me." She let out a breath, burying her face in the warm cotton of his shirt, wishing to stay in his arms forever. "Please."

Pulling away only enough to look her in the eye, David lifted Kelly's chin, the worry and emotion pooling in those hazel eyes like rain after a thunderstorm, always threatening a flood. His own eyes felt cloudy and wet, trying to hold back the emotions he had never felt before, the ones that made this decision the hardest he had ever made. David couldn't answer without breaking Kelly's heart, and he had made his own vow never to hurt her, to never be the cause for her tears. But he couldn't lie to Kelly, either; he realized he could never lie to her.

He pressed his lips to hers softly, focusing on the softness of her lips, this moment, instead of what he had to do. They kissed, and they made love, and they fell asleep in each other's arms, the naked night caressing them, but through the entire night David never promised anything Kelly had desired.

***

She had found it the next morning, when the dawn greeted her awakening eyes with cold emptiness in the bed beside her. She almost wished it had all been a dream, a fantasy held onto by little girls awaiting their soulmate, their rugged outlaw to change his thieving ways for an honest life and a passionate love. Kelly let no tears fall as she realized her fist closed around something in her sleep; she opened it slowly, revealing an old soldier's decorative button, the silver worn yet polished and well cared for, threaded around a leather cord, the star pattern cut into its center leaving an impression in the flesh of her outstretched palm.

***

He only noticed it hours after they had left Burleson, before the sun even had time to rise, Andy and Neal's grumbles about leaving the bank's fortune intact keeping his mind occupied for most of the day. It wasn't until they reached Arkansas that he noticed the weight in the front pocket of his shirt, light yet cumbersome, and when he fished out the strange object he came face to face with three playing cards, the faces of kings staring back at him, hidden and stashed away exclusively for David to find. 


	10. Chapter 10

_"These men are bad citizens but they are bad becaue they live out of their time. The nineteenth century with its Sybaric civilization is not the social soil for men who might have sat with Arthur at the Round Table, ridden at tourney with Sir Lancelot or won the colors of Guinevere...what they did we condemn. But the way they did it we can't help admiring." - John Newman Edwards, about Frank and Jesse James_

 

  
"So there we are in Prescott, right?"

"Pres- _cuit_ ," Joey demurred, rolling his eyes at his own reflex to correct David's pronunciation of a town none of them were ever going to visit again. Kyle thought it sounded like he was ordering a biscuit, but they hadn't even walked into the tavern yet.

David waved his hand at Joey's correction, his other arm slung over Kyle's attentive shoulders. "Totally out of our league. I'm talking, Arizona territory capital, governor's mansion...I don't know what we were thinking, maybe eyes too big for our stomachs."

"You can't eat money," Kyle said, brows knit together, confused on why David suddenly found this more hilarious than the time Joey nearly mistook a cowpie for a rotten beefsteak.

"No, but you can sure drink it," Neal chimed in, patting his belly and remembering the famed Whiskey Row back in Prescott, thinking it was such a shame they were chased out of the town before he could fully appreciate it.

After David composed himself, the crows' feet still inching their way into the corners of his laughter-prone eyes, he continued, shooting a mocking dark look at Neal for interrupting his story. "We just hit the bank and ran out onto Main Street. Little do we know, the sheriff's already caught wind of the job and is running up to the bank right as we leave."

"You were lucky he didn't have time to round up a posse," noted Andy, his understated voice barely registering over the braggart tone David adopted specifically for storytelling. Kyle heard it nonetheless; it was a rare event when the secret, fifth member of the gang rode into a town bravely alongside the others, one Kyle hadn't experienced before. David had assured him this town, a gross overstatement of a few shacks built up around a tavern, was safe for all members of the Kings, much like the Grove but with more familiar and friendlier faces. Kyle's thoughts had briefly fallen upon Megan, and wondered if any woman here could be friendlier to him than she.

Rolling his eyes, David pointed a warning finger at Andy. " _My_ story," he proclaimed possessively. Technically it was more a tale of Joey's history, or what was known of it, but Joey said with great reverence that David could recite it far better than he, and David Cook was never one to turn down a good bit of banter. He waved a hand at Neal, indicating that the two were the only ones involved in the actual heist in Prescott. "So, right as we're walking out of the bank, we're staring down the sheriff's pistol. I'm thinking, that's  it, we are gone, our brains will make indelible marks against the bank's stucco walls."

Kyle's eyes widened as they approached their destination, a busy saloon with haunting, intricately painted lettering along its entryway, identifying the establishment only as the Fallen. He had yet to determine if this meant the women and drink the Kings were sure to find here would be like angels fallen from Heaven, or if the saloon itself would represent the Earth, or the Hell, to which every man fell. He was too engrossed in David's story to ponder the name further; though he obviously knew the tale of Joey Clement joining the Kings had a foregone conclusion, David had a way of coaxing out the suspense in a story, the outlaw possessing a mad love for words and an ingenious knack for utilizing them to best capture his audience. Kyle knew the Kings somehow managed to wrest themselves from their dire predicament and live to tell him the tale, but he was dying to know exactly how.

"A shot rings out in the street, but it's not from a pistol. Next thing I know, the sheriff's on the ground, a load of buckshot in his belly. And this guy here's the cause of it."

He pointed to Joey, who waved his hand dismissively in an attempt to be humble, but he felt the effort took too much energy, and grinned indulgently instead. "It was just a gut reaction," he explained, shrugging his shoulders. "I see someone aiming, I shoot."

"And you did it fucking well," Neal slapped a hand against Joey's back genially, and Kyle caught the hidden smirk from Andy out of the corner of his eye, remembering vividly that Joey was by far no skilled marksman.

David continued, a large grin escaping from his cool outlaw demeanor. "So I say to Joey--I didn't know he was Joey at the time, at this point I just know he's some guy with a shotgun and a bad haircut-- 'Well, if you're on our side, come on then!' I figure, the guy just saved our lives and put this sheriff out of commission; we certainly owed it to him to get him out of Prescott alive."

"We bolted out of there damn quick," contributed Joey, remembering the hot air whipping against his face like breaths of fire as they crossed into Colorado, never once looking back, knowing if he ever caught sight of the territory again it would be too soon. "Once we got time to rest, we were already laughing about it like old friends. Guess the rest is history, really."

The rest truly _was_ history, water under the bridge, as far as the Kings were concerned: Kyle noted the primary method of dealing with Joey's antics was to wait until they subsided and then move on as if nothing occurred. There had been no bad blood among the Kings since Joey had stormed away from camp two weeks ago, much to Kyle's relief, and it seemed there never had been in the first place: David had been right, as Kyle suspected he usually was, and Joey had just needed some time to himself to ride the frustration out of his system. He returned later that day, every man at camp silent about his outburst and with reconciliatory nods all around he was readmitted back into the fold; no harm, no foul. It had been so seamless and routine that Kyle wondered if Joey wandering off on his own happened often.

As Neal swung open the doors to the saloon ahead of the others, Kyle concluded that the Fallen was neither pleasure den nor devilish bordello, both of which he felt he had gained quite a bit of knowledge on his travels with the Kings. The saloon itself was unremarkable, with worn wooden furniture meant for function, not style, and a polished bar in the back manned by a tall figure wiping off the contents of a spilled tankard. But the ordinariness of the saloon quickly lost Kyle's attention to its extraordinary decoration, the finely painted sign at its entrance only a small indication of the wonders to be seen inside. Every inch of the walls and ceiling were painted with wide, sweeping swaths of color, magnificent scenes of fantasy, mythical creatures and beautiful beasts dancing upon the air in backdrops of lush green meadows and pristine waterfalls. Each figure was marked with exceptional detail, from the scales upon a mermaid's tail to the hues of a pixie's flesh, so lifelike and inviting Kyle felt he could reach out and feel the warmth underneath his fingers.

He had never seen such beauty, such skill with color and a brush in all his life, and had never expected to find it in such a nondescript corner of the West. Kyle found himself blatantly staring at the walls, seemingly the only one in the crowded saloon entranced by the mural, and he barely registered David concluding his tale.

"The funniest part of it is--Kid, are you listening?" He felt a rap against his shoulders, breaking Kyle out of his reverie, snapping back into reality as if from a dream. David was always up for being the storyteller, but only if he had a captive audience. "The funniest part is why Joey was in Prescott in the first place. You want to give away the punchline, Joe?" he asked, looking over to his right; Joey was already hungrily eying the poker tables in the back of the saloon.

With a knowing snicker, having supplied this detail many times before during David's retellings, Joey answered, his gaze flitting over to Kyle. "I was there to rob the bank."

No one appreciated the irony in this statement more than David, who broke out into a loud laugh, slapping his hand against his thigh in amusement and momentarily catching the attention of the other patrons of the establishment. "The Dr. and I just happened to get there first," he explained through his laughter, tiny, genuine creases lining the corners of his eyes, a rare sight to witness the notorious outlaw so happy.

"David Cook, are you telling that same, tired old story again?" rang out a voice from the crowd, a lilting, musical tone that contrasted so starkly with the rough masculine voices echoing throughout the saloon. "Aren't you tired yet of hearing yourself speak?"

Out from a sea of nameless grunts came a woman draped in black, from the tough bulls' leather on her boots to every stitch in her elegant yet simple dress. The neckline of her dress plunged as deep as her sleeves curved high, revealing the delicate, pale skin of her arms and above her chest, as daring and dangerous as her title of owner and proprietor of the Fallen. Even her hair was black, a dark, haunting contrast to her skin, running long and free of traditional decorum down her back, only adding to the mystic allure of her striking blue eyes the color of the mural's deep oceans. Upon her right arm was a tattoo of a woman much like herself, with white skin, midnight black hair and delicate features that were as potent in their strength as their beauty. It was the same face upon her upper arm, Kyle realized, as was in the center of the mural, directly behind the bar, a woman warrior of the Orient in dashing, colorful robes, a deadly sword in one hand while the other gestured temptingly towards the viewer.

Years after the fact Kyle was finally goaded to admit he had been a little in love with Carly Smithson when he first laid eyes upon her, but even he was wise enough to realize she was well out of his league.

Not many souls in the West could provide such tart words to David Cook and live to tell about it, but she was certainly one of them, loud and unapologetically controlled, the Fallen saloon her kingdom and she its sovereign. Hands confidently on her hips, she waited for David to approach her instead of coming up to the man herself, a satisfied smirk on her lips indicating she was well aware of her power within those walls. There may have been rowdy, rough men frequenting her saloon, and there may have been many a time she washed blood off the beautiful images along the walls, but she made it clear she was always in control.

Seeing their humble hostess put an entirely different smile on David's face, and his arm slipped from Kyle's shoulders to approach Carly, arms outstretched, voice booming with the joy of reunion. "Ah, the merry widow herself," he beamed, ducking down into a mock bow at her skirts before taking her up in a bear hug. "How is my dear Irish lass faring these days?"

"Much better after seeing your wretched mug around these parts again," she said out of relief, accepting the embrace of the dear friend who lived such a dangerous life.

Just as Carly was one of the few souls still breathing who could playfully insult David, he was one of the few men brave enough to remind Carly Smithson of her departed husband. The rugged idealist who had brought his Irish picture bride into the dangerous frontiers of the West had succumbed to illness before ever seeing his dream of managing his own saloon come to fruition. Carly had taken up his cause as if it were her own, the saloon flourishing under her own name and management but always retaining the spirit of the original owner through the elaborate mural lining the saloon's walls, his beloved bride at the center of it all in more ways than one. There were rumors Carly still pined for him, and rumors on the other end of the scale that she had happily poisoned the man into illness to escape her marriage contract. David, one of the few people who took the time to discover the woman behind the legends and find a friend in the process, knew Carly's true story landed far more into a gray area, a tale much more complicated than any rumor could fabricate.

The other Kings followed suit and gave their warm introductions to Carly, and Kyle thought it best to follow along, nervous hands in his pockets as he looked everywhere but the group of friends reuniting and catching up on the months missed among them. Neal gave a cocky smirk and demanded dinner, to which Carly wittily replied without a beat that the kitchen was closed for the evening, but he was welcome to the hogs' trough if he desired. She carefully warned Andy with a wink to keep the Dr. on a tight tether, and immediately whispered the status of the back wall's poker game into Joey's ear as they embraced; only then did she notice the fifth of their fold, straggling behind and taking a great interest in her late husband's masterpiece.

"David, you damn oaf," she curved her lips into a smirk, blue eyes honing in on Kyle, piercing him like an arrow bolting him to the spot. "You haven't introduced me."

"Him?" David quirked an eyebrow at the kid, as sheepish and shy as the first day he approached the Kings; David had to remember not every man was as immune or accustomed to Carly's striking features as he. "That's just the Kid, you'll get to know him soon enough."

"How do you know he's with us?" joked Andy, a skeptical look on his face as Joey went to the poker tables to join the gamblers and Neal made his way to the bar to join the drinkers. "Maybe he's our hostage."

Carly replied flatly, her deep Irish accent ringing true through her voice when she was happy. "Neal doesn't take hostages," she pointed out. "If that were the case, he'd probably have shot him by now."

"Trust me, ma'am," Kyle found whatever courage he had been holding onto since joining the Kings and spoke up, pulling his hat down from his head out of courtesy. "It's not for lack of trying."

David ignored Neal's shout of protest against the defamation of his good name, the sharpshooter already ordering a round of liquor for the outlaws. "This," he presented, ushering Carly over to the kid as he seemed to be rooted to the spot. "is Kyle Peek, our horse handler, our camp manager, our invaluable lookout." Kyle couldn't tell what was making him blush more: Carly's bright eyes taking him in, or David's glowing introduction, which made him feel more like a part of the Kings than anything had before. "Kyle, this is Carly Smithson, Dublin-born and raised, esteemed proprietor of the saloon of the Fallen, and an absolute cheat at cribbage."

"You lie!" she accused, giving David a playful shove.

"She's also irascibly violent."

"Ma'am," Kyle gave his greeting politely, tipping his head slightly towards her and trying not to focus on her striking eyes, or her breasts, or any part of her that might make him less of a gentleman.

Carly couldn't remember the last time a man had been so courteous to her without expectations; she had come to think all etiquette in the territories had gone out of fashion. "There's finally a decent one among you," she commented.

"Hey!" protested David, putting on a playful pout, the two bantering like siblings. "I'm fucking decent!"

With a leering smile Carly leaned over to plant a dramatic kiss against David's cheek, silently thankful that fate and the law had not yet caught up with him and she was free to have this moment with her friend. "Then the next time you say hello to me, remember to say it to my face," she joked, and roughly cupped her chest in her palms. "And not these."

David mimicked her gesture, palms spread against his own chest indulgently. "I could request the same courtesy."

"Five minutes in the saloon, and you're already fondling yourself in front of women," Andy teased, shaking his head as he went off to the bar to retrieve his share of the first round.

Watching the exchange unfold before him, the hard, ruthless outlaw and the no-nonsense woman playfully spar in a test of wits and laughter, Kyle felt a pang of sympathy for the leader of the Kings that had grown to become his friend. It had been two weeks since David had told him the full story of his love affair with Kelly, the quick, mad passion that had overtook them and the great sadness and regret he held over leaving her. Kyle remembered every word, every emotion that washed over David's face as if it were his own love story, the outlaw who was quickly becoming legend in the West revealing a vulnerability about himself few knew even existed. It was a comforting feeling for Kyle that someone who had experienced tragedy and heartbreak like David could be granted these small moments of happiness, to tell a beloved tale and laugh with an old friend.

"Carly here," David continued his introduction, slinging an arm across her shoulders. "Is the master artist round these parts. Gave me every inch of ink I've got." To prove this, David pulled up the sleeve of his cotton shirt, the heavy fabric only revealing one of the tattoos that adorned his body, the unblinking, ever-watchful eye across his wrist, so large and life-like it felt indeed like David Cook always had an eye on the world, even in sleep; even would in death. Kyle had seen all of the tattoos along David's arms and chest by now, from the initials against his bicep mirroring the design along the barrel of his gun to the colorful eagle on the other side, decrying honor and loyalty as David's most treasured values. Though not nearly as apparent as the Dr.'s tattoos, David found a comfort and an identity in each piece; it told Kyle a world about Carly Smithson's close friendship with the outlaw as well as her skill as an artist that she created them all.

Peering over at David's wrist, Carly admired her own handiwork, observing how the inked colors had faded over time and thinking of ways to improve her technique when the outlaw inevitably decided to come back for another. "They're good enough," she humbled, attempting to pull open David's collar to get a personal view of the condition of her other masterpieces, much to his resistance. "But there have been better." A flash of wistful sadness crossed over her face, visible only to Kyle who was unable to take his eyes off her, as she indicated towards her own arm, the Oriental warrior woman tattooed there echoing the elegance of the figures along the pub's walls.

But in another instant the expression faded, the memories retreating back to their hiding places within her mind, the sadness she learned long ago she must overcome, and move on. "Never thought I'd see the day I'd be _happy_ to slap you for your cheek, Cook," said Carly, the bright smile spread across her features making her appear youthful, like the girl who ran barefoot along the emerald green hills of Ireland and less the wise, experienced woman the West had forced her to become. David presented the side of his face to her, a playful gesture to allow her the honor, but she pinched him instead, garnering an unexpected yelp from him. "With all the stories about you lately, I was sure the only way I'd see you again was a public execution."

There was the talk about executions again; Kyle swallowed the lump forming in his throat at just the sound of that word on Carly's lips, reflexively loosening his collar that had suddenly started to feel like a noose. David, however, focused on a different part of Carly's sentiments. "Stories?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Someone's been writing about us?"

"More than one someone," she noted, walking over to a reading table in the far end of the saloon, framed by the greasy glass of a windowframe. It was the quietest section of the saloon, the others shying away from both the sunlight and the neat stack of newspapers atop the desk, the only area in the building Carly could find some peace for herself. The weekly newspapers she received by stagecoach weren't the best means of finding news of the world outside of the Fallen, but they were more reliable than the whispered rumors and whiskey-fueled rants supplied to her by her patrons. Quickly shuffling through the stack, she found what she had been looking for, and handed a sheet to David.

There were indeed stories, and from more than one publication: the Kings had been a popular topic of the sensational journalism that ran as rampant in the West as the outlaws themselves, but now nearly every issue Carly handed to him had a mention of their exploits. Kyle peered over David's shoulder to catch the headlines, most reporting on the funds lost at each heist and the people killed or injured along the way--which, as he noticed, were always exaggerated, and in all the reported fatalities since he joined, completely fabricated. He looked down at the similar byline for each article; guess this Seacrest reporter fellow had to find some way to sell papers.

"Well, I'll be," David couldn't hide the grin spreading across his face, his satisfaction on a deeper level than simple egotism and pride. It was one thing to see your name in bold-face type in the papers, committing crimes he would have had to live a thousand lives to truthfully accomplish; it was quite another knowing that someone else was possibly noticing your name as well. "Andy hasn't been keeping his eye out for these headlines, I told him to pick up a 'pape whenever he saw the Kings mentioned." He noted that each article mentioned the calling card he painstakingly left at each robbery, the single playing card that sensationalist journalists like this Seacrest used to give a burgeoning outlaw gang a name, a dashing identity to match their growing fame. David hoped that _she_ paid mind to it, as well.

"It's how I knew he was with you," Carly motioned towards Kyle, who had still been reading over David's shoulder about an eyewitness account of their Colorado Springs heist, quoted by Seacrest giving warnings to bankers across the West to take caution, lest they get caught unprepared for the Kings to arrive at their door. When she mentioned the young Californian he brought his attentions once again to rest upon her features, Carly's skin glowing pale in the grimy daylight streaming through the window; he had tried to focus on subjects other than the beautiful woman escorting the outlaws around the Fallen, but once that connection was made, Kyle found himself remiss to break it.

"They mention me?" Kyle asked incredulously.

Carly smiled as she nodded over to a yellowed newspaper within the stack, not yet scanned by David and Kyle's eyes. She couldn't determine if Kyle's personality overlaid a deliberate naivete, or if the months riding with the Kings still hadn't hammered out that precious cluelessness of a greenhorn. David Cook sure did know how to pick them. "The Atlanta Gazette," she indicated, and sure enough once David procured the correct newspaper they found an article filled with speculative prose and needless cliffhangers on each paragraph, questioning the rumors of another rider's arrival into the gang. "Said there were four riders now, definitely spotted at more than one robbery." She smirked at David, remembering her own thoughts when she had read of their latest exploits. "Didn't know you were recruiting, David."

It wasn't a remark that required any snide retort, though it was a rare occurrence when he didn't have a lewd comeback against Carly Smithson's conversation. David simply took the time to skim the article in silence, wondering far less about their names in the papers and more about what these developments meant for their future. Adding Kyle to their ranks now meant that there were four Kings visible to the public eye, giving substance to the wisps of previous rumors of a fourth rider among them, the often overlooked accounts of witnesses seeing Andy ride with David, Joey and Neal. If this satisfied the public's curiosity over their fourth rider, as the articles seemed to indicate, then there would be even less of a chance that snooping reporters--or those with the mind to catch more than a story--would look for evidence of Andy's existence, of his part in their successful heists. The shadow of the Kings would be as stealthy and effective as ever, and now, no one would even attempt to look for him.

"This is perfect," he expressed his thoughts aloud, eyes widening with the possibilities. They could hit every town from here to the Rio Grande if they wanted; David could find himself in the papers so often Kelly could get sick of hearing about him. "I could kiss you right now, Carls."

A dirty smile played on her lips, oblivious to the heat rising in Kyle's face at the mere mention of someone kissing Carly Smithson. "I think you'd have to bring that up with Michael first, Davey," she said coyly. There had never been anything romantic between them, nor would there ever be, but the free, shameless flirtation between good friends was something they both found comforting, teasing quips and jabs at each other that clearly showed their affection.

David raised an eyebrow over the headlines. "Michael? Still?" The slight blush that washed over Carly's cheeks, evident only because of her fair skin, told him her given nickname as the merry widow was not too far off. "The last time I saw you two, you were trying to bludgeon him to death with a cooking pot."

Carly shrugged. "He deserved it."

The smile on David's face widened and was unmistakably lewd; being in Carly's vicinity seemed to coax that out of him. "I'm taking it you made up?"

"Multiple times."

Her gaze unconsciously flitted over to the bar, catching view of the tall bartender behind it keeping up conversation with Andy and Neal. She smiled when he returned her stare though she had not meant to reveal such an indication of affection; letting anyone besides David in the bar know about her extra-professional relations could lead to dicey situations. The West thought of her romantic life as that of legend and rumors carried by the wind; she would not be the one to contradict them.

It was a quick, unconscious notion that turned Carly's head, but one that did not go completely unnoticed: the gesture, that smile she gave to the bartender was all picked up by Kyle, his instant infatuation with the owner of the Fallen running its course in a silent, crushing end. His fantasies of igniting a mad love affair with the older Irish woman were doused before they ever caught flame. He looked sullenly between Carly and her handsome bartender, wishing for a love of his own, to have the adventurous life of an outlaw _and_ a woman to call his own, like David had.

But romance in the untamed, treacherous West, as Kyle learned, certainly had its price: he could have said David Cook had it all, but the statement would never ring true until he was reunited with Kelly, if ever at all. Kyle wasn't sure if he could bear to find love on the open plain only to have it ripped from him, like Carly's husband, or forced to separate and speak only through letters and criminal exploits in the papers, like David and Kelly. And he only had to look so far as to Neal and Andy to remember how complicated love could be even when you found it.

"All right there, Kid?" Kyle was snapped out of his reflections by Carly's lilting voice, her concerned tone calling him not by his name but by the moniker David gave to him that seemed to stick despite any attempts otherwise. "You look like you could use a drink."

He let Carly lead him towards the bar, trying not to reflect too forlornly on the guiding hand she placed on his shoulder, suspecting it would be the only opportunity he had to experience her touch. The bartender grinned as they approached, a cool, professional exterior giving way to the unmistakable attraction in his eyes for the Kings' hostess. He seemed friendly enough, openly chatting and laughing with Neal and Andy, his accented voice loud but not obnoxiously so. Kyle decided it was a fair loss, to a worthy man who seemed to have genuine feelings for Carly and she for him, though he neglected to remind himself that there was no battle to win or lose here; he had never even been in the running.

"Who the damn hell are you!"

The shout boomed over the hearty rumble of voices in the Fallen, and stopped Carly and Kyle in their tracks. It wasn't unusual for an argument to arise over a hand of cards or a wrong turn in conversation, especially late into the night when there was more liquor inside the patrons than behind the bar. But the windows, grimy and neglected as they were, revealed daylight through their glass panes, and from the hairs rising on the back of Kyle's neck he felt that the accusation wasn't over something as innocuous as a card game.

The bar fell into silence, quiet enough to hear a single man breathe, to hear the scrape of a chair and two boot heels on the wooden floor as one man stood in the back of the saloon. He was stout and squat, with his substantial weight composed more of fat than muscle, his short legs indicating to Kyle that whatever horse he owned was probably small, and strained to weather the burden of that girth upon its back. He frowned; from the angry, unprovoked sneer upon his lips and the unintelligent sheen in his eyes, Kyle bet that the man was cruel to his animal on top of it.

He took a few steps forward, the pints of ale in him emboldening his step but not enough yet to cause them to stumble. Kyle felt the hand on his shoulder tighten its grip, then disappear, as Carly clenched her jaw. It was clear from the pudgy finger pointed where they had been standing exactly who this man was challenging.

David didn't even flinch, not even an eyebrow raised at the accusation; the man was clearly not much of a threat, or he wouldn't have waited so long since the Kings's arrival to the Fallen to stir up trouble. Even so, his face was a stone slab, the happiness Kyle saw there before as he joked with Carly completely gone, as if David Cook never had a pleasant memory in his life. But this wasn't the same man that had smiled and laughed before him a moment ago; this was now the legendary outlaw, the leader of the ruthless and gravely successful bank robbing gang, and with a grit of his teeth Kyle knew with a sad certainty David had set that happier man within him aside.

"Didn't know I needed to be formally introduced," he answered, eyes keenly aware and watching the other man's every move. "Have the rules of conduct changed since I've been here last? Is this now a black-tie establishment?"

The other man's sneer grew deeper and more pronounced, small eyes narrowing as he took another step forward. "You know what the fuck I'm talking about, Cook," he shot out, emphasizing his distaste by spitting on the floor, obviously of the breed of man who believed true masculinity came from those who didn't swallow.

His expression of machismo had no effect on David, but the utterance of his name from the man's lips surely did. "So you _do_ know who I am," he said with a click of his tongue, crossing his arms against his chest casually while taking inventory of the man, as well as any saloon patrons behind him that may be his associates. "If we're talking about rules of conduct here, it's really not prudent to ask a question to which you already know the answer." His tone was undeniably condescending, a habit of his that at twenty-six he was too old to break, but he knew not to mock the other man too much, bring him to a place where he felt ridiculed. If this man already had bad blood against David, there was no need to create more. "The real question here is...who in the hell are _you_."

Disgusted that his own reputation did not precede him nearly as much as David Cook's, he hooked his thumbs into his belt, pridefully puffing out his chest as much as he could, though the effort only caused his belly to protrude even farther past his waistline than before. "The name's Scott Savol." David couldn't place the name but he knew the cockiness in the man's stance and his tone of voice well enough; he experienced it with every bounty hunter to fall at his hand. "You better remember it, 'cause it's the name of the man who's about to bring you down."

For a lesser man it would have been difficult not to laugh in Savol's face at the remark, but David took every threat, frivolous though it may be, as if it could be the last. "No one's going to bring anyone down today," he negotiated; his words were quickly conciliatory but there was no mistaking the dangerous, low growl of his voice, the darkness clouding over his eyes, staining what was once a brilliant, joyful blue-green a dull, threatening gray. "I'm going to get myself a drink. You're going to sit back down in that chair. And we're going to pretend this never happened."

Savol, hell-bent on causing a scene, overlooked the menacing darkness washing over David's face and continued into a rant. "You're not telling me to do _shit_. You think you're the best damn bank robber that ever was, just because you're the fucking papes' darling." David realized he was no lawman or bounty hunter, for even the most bumbling of the men after the price on his head knew better than to confront him in a crowded saloon. He was probably a thief himself, David considered, who through no less than a miracle was a successful one, but neither his crimes nor his name ever graced the pages of a newspaper like the Kings. That's what this was all about: face time. "But you've just got a name and a shit reputation."

"I guess I've got a good publicist," David deadpanned, his face stoically still. The bar was dead silent save for the two. Some men wanted to see Savol run his mouth until David split it open; some were banking on the notorious outlaw to be taken down a peg, also jealous of the gang's fame and success. Most didn't care who won; they just wanted to see blood.

"Not good enough to get that pretty bounty off your head." Another step forward; David caught in his peripheral vision the slightest movement from the bar, from the crowd of blackjack players in the back. The other Kings were paying careful attention to how close Savol dared to get as well. "David Cook. Leader of the Kings. At least a dozen men dead by your gun -"

"Don't want to make it thirteen, fella," David warned, mouth curving into a sneer, though Kyle had seen the flash of emotion in his eyes, a shock that he could have killed twelve people in the years he had been an outlaw. In truth, the tally was probably higher.

But that flash was gone when Savol took another step, leaving behind only the experienced, cold outlaw who had earned those notches on his gun, even if he was not proud of them. "- And that's not to mention the bank robberies you're wanted for, all over the territories. You racked up quite a bounty on your head; got every damn sheriff from here to Tularosa clamorin' for your neck in a noose."

David narrowed his eyes; he knew where this was heading, and he didn't like the sound of it. He wouldn't be caught in a hangman's noose, not now; not when the letters still came, when there was someone still to live for. Scott Savol should have come to him five years ago: David would have gladly given him the rights to the bounty and the glory of bringing the deadly outlaw to his end.

But now, he couldn't bear to imagine the blow it would cause to Kelly if she had to read of her love's execution in the newspaper.

"You don't want to do this, partner." It was the last warning David would give the man, devoid of emotion, his left hand already itching to reach for the revolver at his side.

Savol's tone grew harsh, his sneer downturning into a primal scowl. "I ain't your _partner,_ " he shot back. "And those wanted posters back in Canyon City say the bounty's just as good dead or alive -"

He reached for the pistol at his hip but was dreadfully too slow. Neal and Andy reached for their guns first, the pair keeping a keen eye on the argument by the bar to Savol's left and behind. If they had been on his other side Neal could have shot the gun clean away from his hand before anyone took another breath, but as it were the Dr. wasn't picky with where on Savol's person he shot. Joey had rested his prized shotgun when he sat down to a game of cards, propping it up by the barrels against the table, but in an instant it was in his hand, ready to aim at the Kings's latest foe. Even Kyle felt the instinctual pull to draw the pistols at his sides, his head abuzz with adrenaline as he thought not of his shooting lessons, but only of backing up David with extra firepower, a King protecting one of his own. 

But there was one gunslinger in the saloon, unnoticed during the standoff, that managed to outdraw all of them, and Scott Savol felt more than heard the cock of the Derringer's hammer as the barrel pressed against his temple.

"Savol, you no-good, lazy, terrible excuse for an outlaw." Carly Smithson's lilting Irish accent grew deeper and more pronounced when she was angry, spitting out the words with a fire behind them that brought her all the way back to Dublin. Kyle hadn't needed another reason for his infatuation with Carly, but with the expert way she trained the small pistol on Savol and the bundle of her skirts bunched in her free hand, revealing the hidden thigh holster at her garter, he certainly found quite an eyeful.

No one had watched the owner of the Fallen silently make her way out of Savol's sight line, reaching for the Derringer while David outmatched him in a battle of words. Often underestimated, Carly had shown time and time again--with her successful saloon, her independence over her love life--she was a force to be reckoned with. "You think you can just walk into my saloon and threaten any man here with their freedom--with their life?" The fact that the Kings were good friends of hers had no bearing on her anger; her saloon had become a safe haven for outlaws, the laws and bounties of the West existing outside of its walls, never to be invited in. The Fallen was the one of the best-kept secrets for those on the other side of the law, and Carly intended to keep it that way.

Savol stammered, his courage gone in the face of real weaponry pointed at his temple. He began to sweat, the fear in his small, beady eyes suddenly very real. It would be one thing to attempt hauling in the Kings to justice and getting cut down in the process; quite another to be killed begging for your life by a woman. "You're such a coward," she sneered, disgusted at the instant transformation from tough man to blubbering idiot. If he never had a gun trained on him before, he must not have been such an excellent thief. "Been waiting a long time for you to give me a reason to kick you out of here. You like talking about undeserved publicity? How about your bragging in this bar, about the crimes you've committed, the places you've hit; the people you've said you've robbed up and down this trail."

He came in periodically, often enough for Carly to attach a name and the unpleasant disposition with the equally unappealing face, and each time he attracted a small audience to hear of his latest exploits in crime, whether it be a successful stagecoach robbery or looting the treasury of a rich carpetbagger. It was clear from the increasing elaborations of each heist that Savol spent more time running off at the mouth than pulling off a job worth anyone's breath. "The only time I've ever heard you were even worth a lawman's second glance is over beating your wife." She leaned in with a scowl, her voice low for effect; she didn't want to get any closer to Savol than she had to. "I should let you loose on these men now, let them tear you to pieces, because knowing them? _I'm_ the one who'd be more merciful."

Time itself seemed to stop for those moments, a heavy silence falling onto the crowd as Carly contemplated her next move, the only sound a pitiful whimpering from Savol, almost wishing he had been done in by the Kings instead; then at least his death might have been quick, and possibly not so humiliating. He waited for the gunshot, for the Derringer's bullet to pierce his skull and end it at the miserable hands of a woman, but it never came, the gun barrel warming from the sweat pouring down his temple.

Carly pushed him away with the butt of the gun, holding back the impulse to crack him over the head with the pistol, watching Savol stumble cowardly away. She would have had to clean up the blood, anyway, and there was no way in hell she'd dirty up her late husband's mural with Savol's worthless hide. "You're leaving," she ordered, her voice loud and demanding, the light, musical tone Kyle had heard in it when they first arrived hardened and cold. "Walk your corpulent ass out of this bar; walk it out of this _town_. Walk the hell out of the territory, if you know what's good for you. Because if I ever see your face again--" Carly narrowed her eyes, the Derringer in her hand not nearly as deadly as her glare. "--you'll not be walking _anywhere_."

A sneer formed on Savol's lips, though his feet started their journey towards the saloon door. It didn't matter what bar Carly owned, or how many threatening looks she could shoot him; no woman talked to him that way, not if they understood what was good for them. "Why don't you go back to liftin' your skirt and serving drinks," he threw the comment back. "A woman's place ain't never holding a gun on a man--"

And in an instant Savol had more than just Carly's Derringer trained on him: the standoff was well under Carly's control until that moment, the one time when her ability as a woman was challenged, and five other guns came to her defense. The Kings finally drew their weapons, a fearsome sight with each man capable at a moment's notice to revoke Carly's gracious generosity in letting Scott Savol live.

"No one talks like that to her," the words escaped Kyle's mouth before he could censor himself, but when he looked back on them and the smile of gratitude Carly gave him afterwards, he didn't regret one word.

"The lady asked you to leave," was David's official response to Savol's actions, the growl in his voice far more personal now that a friend had been involved. He cocked the hammer on his revolver slowly, making sure Savol heard the click, could feel the chambers in the gun turning to a fresh new bullet. "I suggest you take her up on the offer while it's still available to you."

Sensing he was clearly outnumbered and outmatched--and none of the barflies that had goaded him into confronting the leader of the Kings would jump to his aid now--Savol backed up until his frame hit the door to the saloon, startled by the contact, and took the rest of the distance to his nag at a scampering run. He dared not show his face at the Fallen again, knowing he would not be welcome if he returned. Any outlaw, regardless of their station or the severity of their crimes, never looked kindly upon a thief who decided to go turncoat on another.

With his narrowed eyes on the door, David lowered his revolver, the threat now gone but the adrenaline that kept his body alert and his mind wary still running its course. This wasn't the first time the outlaws had faced someone with fame and fortune sparked in their eyes, and it wouldn't be the last. Grimly, he reminded himself that Savol was certainly one of the easier bounty hunters to handle: no shots fired, no blood spilled. Most encounters weren't so fortunate or so lucky.

Just as he holstered his gun David felt a sharp poke at his side; he turned, caught off-guard at the prospect of another standoff, but this one was far less deadly than the last--though much more terrifying.

"And you," Carly scowled, poking a long finger into David's ribs, her other hand still holding onto the Derringer; David supposed it was a good sign she wasn't accosting him with the barrel of the gun, that at least meant she didn't intend to shoot him over his transgressions. "You know better than to pull a damn gun in this saloon. It's difficult enough trying to keep order here, I don't need you adding to the trouble."

"But -" David tried to protest, but Carly cut him off. Now it was his turn to look like the reprimanded child; Kyle had to react quickly to hide a snicker behind his palm.

"Don't try to tell me he started it," she warned, finger now waggling in David's face. " _He_ is a bottom-dwelling, conniving, unpleasant waste of breath who will probably get himself killed before he even reaches the border. And you -"

"I," David interrupted, the harshness in his voice completely gone out the door with Savol, his eyes softening to let his sympathy shine through. "Am your friend." He grasped Carly's offending finger in both hands, his words sincere. David knew Carly's plight, the struggles of an Irish immigrant widow making it on her own in a wild land where nearly everything was held against her favor. She worked hard to maintain not only the physical walls of the Fallen but also the respect she earned that kept them standing. The saloon and everything in it wasn't just a career for Carly, it was her past--David looked over towards the bar at Michael, who was shooting daggers with his eyes where Savol had stood, one hand underneath the bar where David knew he kept his rifle for emergencies--and her future.

David's admission softened the angry lines in Carly's face, melting her scowl into a perturbed pout. "You owe me," she said, taking her hand back from David and pulling up her skirts once more to holster the Derringer in her garter. Kyle gulped, realizing that was quite a lucky Derringer.

His smile turned wicked once again, the somberness broken, the tension-filled moment passed. "Owe you what?" he asked with a wink. "I don't do sexual favors, Carls; my body's not for sale."

Carly wrinkled her nose as if David's words just released a foul odor into the air. "Ew," she noted with a disgusted expression, but she smiled underneath the grimace, pleased to return to their normal banter, like the calm of the open seas after threats of a terrible storm. "It'd be a favor if you never mention that again, Cook." But she gave David a parting wink as she returned her hand to Kyle's shoulder, guiding him towards the bar as if the encounter with Savol had never happened. If not for the pistol in his hand and the blood still thumping in his ears over the standoff, Kyle wouldn't have recognized the moment as anything different, either. "But you know what you owe. And I expect it by last call."

Indeed, David knew well what Carly requested to repay his debt of lost respect, but he held it in with a knowing little smile throughout the night, without giving Kyle so much as an inkling to Carly's desire. Kyle soon forgot about the promise altogether, the debt pushed to the back of his mind to make room for stories and laughter among his fellow Kings, reveling in the freedom to enjoy a drink with the other four outlaws without worry or threat. He loved the outlaw life, the thrill and excitement he had always yearned for, but the endless weeks traveling aimlessly on the open plain, running from the dangers their excitement begat, made moments like this ones to be treasured.

The quick and steady flow of liquor from Carly's top shelf--only the best for her boys, she declared as she playfully ruffled Neal's hair, the only woman in the country offered that privilege--allowed Kyle's inhibitions to dissipate along with his doubts and worries, the anxiety he sometimes felt lowering with each hearty laugh over David's stories, Andy's tales of gossip, Joey's loud, corny jokes. The melancholy he experienced over losing the chance with Carly before it ever began lessened as well, watching the easy, loving touches between her and Michael when they thought no one else was looking, their heartwarming laughter and light, witty retorts quite different from the ones between Carly and David. Carly Smithson was breathtaking, he'd go to his grave admitting that, but Kyle knew any man who tried to stand in the way of love was a damn fool.

David looked at the same couple, Carly complaining about her heavy skirts being the current yet uncomfortable fashion and Michael coyly offering to remove them for her if she so pleased, and came to the same conclusion as Kyle; he had been the fool for standing in the way of his own love, once.

It was well into the night before Carly's retribution was mentioned again, the mirrored oil lamps scattered around the saloon sending shadows across the walls, a warm orange glow that reminded Kyle of California sunsets, of home. The sounds of tankards clinking together in inebriated celebration and familiar, friendly voices filled his ears, and Carly pointed out the uncontrollable smile spreading across his face before he even noticed it was there. But it was the sound of soft music notes floating through the buzz of the Fallen's crowd that caught their attention, the dance of skilled fingers against piano keys unmistakable to anyone who had heard it before.

"Ah," Carly said with a grin, her eyes wide and dancing in anticipation. " _Here's_ my present."

Kyle looked over to the far corner of the saloon, an upright piano of sturdy oak standing tall and vigilant; a common staple in drinking houses across the West, though most were horribly abused by the drunk and untalented, mistaking absurdity and noise for true entertainment. An avid lover of music, Carly never allowed laymen to put fingers to those keys lest they hammer the poor instrument irrevocably out of tune. It was reserved for a special few who proved their worth and talent, her Michael being one of them; the first time they had kissed had been at that piano, hours after the last call, Carly falling far into a trance from the beauty of Michael's music and never emerging again.

But this was not Michael at the keys: instead it was a slender young man, his black clothes dusty from the desert trails, back curving towards the piano as a flower to the light. A stray lock of dark hair fell into his face but he paid it no mind, the black and white keys before him calling his fingers to them, calling them home. The slightest hint of a smile graced his lips, fingers playing a quick chord and a run to acclimate himself; he was, after all, blissfully out of practice.

The player's head faced the keys, shielded from view, but Kyle could recognize the familiar figure anywhere by now, and his eyes widened in wonder as Andy's music filled the room, bringing the saloon to quite a different kind of silence than when Savol disrupted the merriment earlier in the day.

"Wow," he found himself saying, awestruck at not only the technical talent Andy was exhibiting, but the emotion he put forth into the music, creating and projecting in a way he hadn't allowed himself for years. "Never knew he was _that_ good."

A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder; Neal's eyes held an admiration Kyle had never seen in them before as he watched Andy at the piano, and there was something indefinable in his smile as his heart swelled. "Oh, he's a lot better than just _good_ ," he corrected, never taking his eyes off Andy.

The tune was unfamiliar to Kyle, but that was no surprise to him: on the Peek ranch in California he found little time or opportunity to hear the popular songs of the day, the concert halls and music taverns in town a rare luxury for him. He found a love of music not through the keys of a piano or a concert orchestra, but in the simple, earthy rhythms of the world around him: the staccato of a horse's hooves as they galloped towards the sun, the slow, steady beats of a drenching rain against a tin roof.

Kyle did not know the melody Andy played but the others did, their smiles and nods of assent increasing with the crescendo of the notes. He let the music flow inside him, accepting it into his heart and stomach by way of his ears, a soft tune Andy started deliberately slow, then sped up as it increased in intensity. Before Kyle knew it his body was responding in the best way it knew how, tapping his palms against the bar to the rhythm, complementing the piano’s notes with a timely beat. The other outlaws and the rest of the crowd responded with a good cheer to Kyle’s contribution, his grin wide and giddy as he fell into the drumbeat. When he banged his metal tankard against a dinner plate with a resounding and pleasant crash, he almost thought he felt a kiss upon his cheek from the merry widow herself, though he was too engrossed in the music by now to notice.

The entire saloon was enraptured by the music, the Kings’s gift to Carly and to themselves, to relax and enjoy a night of freedom while they had it. Joey had chimed in with a steady, deep stomp of his feet to accompany Kyle’s rhythm, and even the Dr., typically excusing himself from public attraction and self-humiliation alike, nodded his head vigorously to the music, stepping away from an occupied Kyle as he approached the piano, flashing a toothy grin. But it wasn’t until David Cook’s voice rose over it all that the saloon brightened, his words and melody breathing life into the Fallen.

“Break your neck for some substance…”

Haunting, gritty, and real, David’s voice seemed to bear the weight of his history in its timbre, the volume soft and mournful at first, each note a eulogy to those who had fallen: the men he killed, the family for whom he killed. His eyes were closed as if pained by the memories, the very words themselves; he had been through so much, they all had, and each moment was brought forth in his voice, emotions so great they filled men’s eyes with tears.

“This is temporary sanity, an exercise in vanity. So long to the ordinary day, wrought with fictitious tales of how there’s any other way…”

His voice cracked then, the strong timbre giving way to emotion as he reluctantly reflected on the last line in the verse. He tempted his mind every day with fantasies of what could have been: if the lawman had left his family alone, intact, and alive; if David had never followed him, intent on the type of revenge only spilt blood could offer; if he accepted Kelly’s request and stayed with her, taken all of these years to fall deeper in love. He thought on these possibilities every day, but at every sunset the outcome was always the same, and he was still an outlaw, leading a life that at best would get him killed. The other roads he dreamed about were not his; they never were. No matter what David desired, there was no other way but this one, leading these men through the West and into the newspapers and history books. He might trade the lifestyle, yes, but never the loyalty. Never the companionship.

The clench of Andy’s jaw slackened when David began to sing, his clear, true voice taking center stage and mingling perfectly with the piano and Kyle’s impromptu accompaniment. He had stepped up to the piano as a favor, knowing his place at Carly’s establishment forever lay there at that bench, but when the eyes of the saloon drew upon him he wished he had never revealed his talent in the first place. He was fifteen at his parent’s house all over again, playing for a crowd of strangers watching his every move, and he wished to shrink his slender frame further into the bench, curve his back lower towards the keys until he could disappear. He certainly preferred being the observer over being the observed.

He felt his presence before seeing the flash of blond hair and red leather boots beside the piano, watching Andy play intently, always entranced at the rare occasions he was privileged to see him in his element. Andy took a quick turn of his head and smiled, Neal already reciprocating the grin. Just his company alone emboldened Andy, made everyone else in the saloon fall away, and suddenly he didn’t feel so averse to being watched anymore. His voice chimed in with David’s, his harmony not as strong or resonating but holding a uniqueness in itself, drawing depth out of the second verse.

“Hold on to anything at all; it’s a long way down between the summer and the fall…”

He tried not to look Neal in the eye for so long while he was singing, as if Andy were singing directly to him, but he found his efforts futile; Neal wouldn’t let him look away.

“If I told you that you’re everything, would you sing along?”

Kyle shared a grin with Joey from across the room, his enthusiasm for finding the song’s rhythm and running with it not lost on the crowd, who cheered and waved with every crash of the tankard to dinner plate, every animalistic run of beats fueled by his heart. He hadn’t even been paying attention to the main attraction in the room until David had snuck up on him, approached him with a sly, knowing smile. The mournfulness in his voice was gone now, replaced with an energy he fed from his fellow Kings, as he poked a finger at Kyle and directly sang to him the repeated proposition.

“Would you sing along?”

And sitting there, surrounded by sounds, great drink and even greater friends, Kyle knew he would follow the Kings until his dying breath.

By now the entire crowd was eager to join in the revelry, though many did not know the words in order to participate. But they waved their hands all the same when David enticed them to, a satisfied, adoring grin flashed over to Neal and Andy as they all basked in the camaraderie.

“Would you sing my song, at the top of your lungs…”

The Fallen was in a rare state of bliss that night, the joyous celebrations radiating from the building like warmth from a blazing bonfire, one of the most notorious gangs in all the West leading the saloon in song, the energy coursing through them much different than the thrill of a robbery or chase. In their hearts all five men knew it would be the happiest moment they all spent together, focusing not on bank heists or bounties but on friendship, companionship, and love.

“And we’ll all sing along. We’ll all sing along…”


	11. Chapter 11

_"The West, where a man can look farther and see less of anything but land and sky." - Will James_

 

Kris Allen walked through the town with a sure and steady gait, gathering good mornings and respect from the passing townspeople more for the smile on his face than the badge on his chest. Matt Giraud, owner of the dry goods store, politely tipped his hat as he sent a toothy smile Kris's way, while Kristy Lee, the preacher's wife, nodded demurely as she escorted the children from their morning prayers to school. The town was awakening from its morning slumber, the New Mexico sun coming up strong as ever over the horizon but its warmth only encouraging residents to burrow themselves deeper into the covers, hoping for another five minutes of sleep. Though no farmer or cattle rancher, Kris found it best to rise early in the morning, a heavy sleeper by nature but maintaining vigilance even in slumber, training himself to awaken at the slightest call of trouble or the sound of a far-off gunshot, knowing that shot's owner might very well be gunning for his town. He was, after all, the best line of defense for the place he adopted as his home--and as far as he was concerned, the only line of defense. 

He gave a pleasant morning greeting to Giraud--who always kept Kris far beyond the deputy's desire if he mentioned anything past the current day's weather--and courteously removed his wide-brimmed hat as Kristy Lee passed, the rush of morning air breezing through his hair, a northern-bound wind that told Kris the day would be a scorcher. Despite the years he had spent in the deserts of the West he still wasn't comfortable with the dry heat, oppressive on most days when cattle fainted and women swooned. Kris yearned for the summers of his Arkansas youth: humid, and sticky, but not so inhumanely hot the tumbleweeds caught aflame.

Harkening back to his youth was always a double-edged sword for Kris, who left his hat off and was already fanning the oncoming heat away from his face as he leisurely patrolled the street. The memories were fond ones, of crystal blue lakes he fished in with his father, the cornfields so high he could lose himself in them for hours; but it always brought the pangs of homesickness to his heart as well. He sent letters back home as often as he could and received them in turn, his brother Daniel regaling him with stories of the university and his mother reminding him to eat right, and they never failed to bring tears to his eyes, his desire for home overwhelming him in those moments. But it was the letters sent from his father, the first in particular, that stayed with him always, recalling both firmly and proudly that Kris left the comforts of home to find himself, to meet fortune, fame, or love, as he had always dreamed of doing as a boy.

Kris loved his family back in Arkansas, there was no question to his loyalty there; but he had a new family now, and it was every soul in the town he had sworn to protect.

Settling in the tiny yet growing town in the New Mexican territory was no accident; on the contrary, Kris always found time to include the anecdote when introducing himself, the long-time residents seeming to understand the place's attraction to the young man. With only a horse, his mother's pot roast and potatoes and the clothes on his back, Kris ventured out West to find his way, unclear to what he was searching for but certain only of the optimistic dream that he'd find it. The town's name itself called out to him, a clear path for an eager young man looking to make his mark not through riches or power but through good deeds and righteousness.

It was no wonder Kris found the town of Hope so endearing to him.

The name was quaint, and if one plied him with enough gimlets Kris would admit it was a tad on the corny side, but the town itself was quaint, and Kris would defend its humble nature to the death if he had to. It was a town of dreams, a town that held deeply onto its roots but hadn't been afraid to accept a fresh face like Kris into their fold, the young man transitioning from wide-eyed newcomer to a regular in the community in less than two years. Hope, not ironically, was built on the hope of its people, kept running on those aspirations and dreams; like steam fueling a locomotive, happily puttering towards its destination, hope let the town run forever.

"Everything all right?" He poked his head into the blacksmith's barn, only to be greeted by the enormous backside of a gray-haired gelding, almost as large as the enormous backside of the blacksmith. Kris took a step back as the horse swept his tail at the prone smith, irritated that the man was spending so much time and effort to repair his hind shoe.

The booming laugh of the portly man erupted from underneath the horse, the blacksmith too engrossed in his work to look up. "I've got to lodge a complaint with you, deputy!" he chuckled at his own upcoming joke, tight brown curls bouncing with his own laughter. "This fella here refuses to pay me! Says he's got no money and no pockets to keep 'em. Now," he carefully hammered the last nail into the horseshoe, releasing the leg gently and giving the gelding a comforting pat against its flank. "Is that any way to treat a humble cobbler?"

Stretching out to his full height and grinning, the blacksmith couldn't help but make Kris laugh, though not as enthusiastically as his company. The horse snorted, unpleased with the joke. "That's a lie," Kris narrowed his eyes, the smirk never leaving his lips. "Mister Sligh, you're no cobbler."

Chris Sligh threw up his hands in resignation. "You've caught me in my out-and-out lie, Deputy Allen," he claimed, as Kris went over to the gelding, giving him a warm welcome to his face. "It's not quite a crime, so it's out of your jurisdiction, but it is a sin, so I'll leave my fate up to a higher authority." He pointed to the roof though Kris hadn't paid attention, caring much more about the condition of the horse.

"My boy's doing well?" he asked, the familiar horse a much more welcome sight than the blacksmith.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of black soot in its wake, Sligh informed the deputy his Conway would be ready by the afternoon, a new set of shoes to accompany them both on their regular patrols of the area. Satisfied with the results, Kris gave a parting smile and goodbye to both backsides, continuing on his morning rounds. Though as a general rule--Kris gritted his teeth at the reminder that, as of late, it wasn't a de facto law--there wasn't much crime in the town to be had.

The opportunity had opened itself up to him like providence, like fate: a deputy position, a chance to make a difference in people's lives, and in a town that only required one slice of rhubarb pie and a glass of sweet tea to become enamored with. Though he had a fair amount of shooting lessons back home, Kris found himself to be more of a dozer than hunter, but the sheriff had only required his deputies to bring their own guns and horses, and to have a clear view of the laws of God and the territory. The sheriff who hired him--a bald man with an easy drawl and even easier grin--found common ground with Kris, discussing their shared literal shortcomings, and he had grown to be a close friend and confidante in the short time Kris had known him.

Quickly Kris blew on the two fingers on his right hand and made the sign of the cross. God rest Chris Daughtry's soul.

"Right hot day we're 'bout to have," he commented to two cowhands to a ranch nearby, settling early into town for feed and supplies. They both laughed hearty, well-natured chuckles, their tanned skin and the red New Mexico clay caking onto their clothes clear indications they were accustomed to the weather the territory had to offer.

"Ain't too bad, Dep," replied one of the men, his understatement already dampened by the sweat clinging to his long, blond locks underneath his hat. Kris almost expected the answer from Bucky, whom he had never seen face a day without a smile, tackling one of the most grueling jobs in the West without so much as a darkened thought or complaint. It was what Kris found so admirable about the frontier: there were hardships, more often endured alongside death and heartbreak, but the town always looked to the brighter side of life, eagerly turning towards the new day. Those who spat out the legends of opportunistic forty-niners and carpetbaggers hadn't yet encountered this town; his town, stocked with the salt of the Earth, people who loved their God, loved their land, and loved each other.

"Catch any outlaws today, Dep?" asked the other cowhand, a friendly face with hair as short as Bucky's was long, a rough layer of stubble upon his cheeks a stark contrast to the other man's sizable mustache.

Kris grinned; he expected that from Chris as well. "You should've been here yesterday, Richardson," he called out, already starting again on his daily patrol. "Caught myself a whole mess o' gunslingers. Wild Bill, Kid Longley, the whole Reno Gang; rounded them all up, was quite a sight. Pretty exciting," he joked, the answers all comfortingly routine.

But Bucky went off-script and grinned as they entered Giraud's store. "Maybe you'll catch the Kings today, eh, Kris?"

His smile went tight, then disappeared once Bucky and Chris were inside the store; he stopped for a moment to regain his composure, let the blood in his veins that just ran cold have some time to warm underneath the sun again. Normally the conversation ended there, a good-natured laugh among acquaintances, one small aspect of Kris's life in town that made up the whole. Kris always used the names of outlaws and gunslingers long dead in their quick, witty banter, the names of ghosts not nearly as threatening as the ones who still roamed the West searching for their next prey. Bucky meant no harm by the comment but it left the ground unsettled at Kris's feet, a dark steel trap cordoning off his sense of humor.

There were some far more superstitious folks in town who thought even saying the name of the Kings would invoke their presence, bring upon the destruction and death they lay in the wake of their horses wherever they went, no city too small, no town too safe. Kris always thought of himself as a more practical person than to believe in old wives' tales or toss salt over his shoulder, but he still didn't ever like the sound of that name in Hope. It was one thing to fear the gang of outlaws, to pray their shadows never graced the threshold of Hope, but if they ever did, Kris would be the one to take them down. From the stories he read in the newspapers, that was as good as a death sentence.

He needed something to lift his spirits quickly. The tiny red building sandwiched between the post office and the graveyard lightened Kris's heart, the heavy feeling of dread breaking like storm clouds at the sight of Hope's lone teacher greeting her students warmly outside of the schoolhouse, her smile beaming even from so far away.

Though Kris was friendly with everyone, a necessity for a deputy and particularly for a newcomer to Hope, there were few in the town he considered true friends, confidants; those that saw past the badge and cared to look for the man underneath. Hope's schoolmarm, a delightful woman with long, curly hair the color of sunshine and a sweet voice that calmed even the rowdiest of children, was one of them, declaring herself Hope's official one-woman welcome committee for the deputy and staying close ever since. Sheriff Daughtry had been another, growing close with the Arkansas native as he trained him, the nature of their work making them compatriots until the sheriff's sudden and untimely death.

"Morning there, Miss White," he called out as the schoolteacher ushered in the littlest children to the red schoolhouse by the hand.

Instead of receiving a shining grin as usual, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, slapping on a frown to cover her amusement. "How many times have I told you, Kris," she attempted a stern tone but the light in her eyes gave it away, and Kris wondered if her discipline ever worked on her students. "You, of all people, should be calling me Brooke."

His mouth quirked to the side as he approached, already the clenching in his gut over the thought of the Kings in his town melting away. "Not according to some folks, ma'am," he pointed out, both parties knowing how well-oiled Hope's gossip mill could be, the old women in the town appearing to have more sway than the sheriff. "Particularly if we're courting; wouldn't be proper if I did."

That certainly broke Brooke's stern expression: her face betrayed her facade and she grinned, the skin wrinkling at her eyes with repressed laughter. "Yes, _courting_ ," she emphasized, keeping her voice rather low and away from small, prying ears; she didn't need this conversation reaching the nosy parents of her students. News of the quick and close friendship the two shared had eventually reached the eyes and ears of the townsfolk, and within two months of Kris's arrival in Hope there were rumors that the pair would wed, or at the very least that they _should_. The well-intended yet invasive eyes of the town led them into a long courtship process, though Kris, with no intention or desire for marriage with Brooke White, took the long-standing rumors with a laugh and a grain of salt. Brooke winked, her honest eyes always giving away her similar intentions. "Because nothing would be more fulfilling in my life than to be married to _you_."

Kris flashed a warm smile at her; refusing to be dismissed as an old maid at twenty-six, career-minded Brooke agreed to the fabricated courtship for the same reason Kris had--to keep the town off her damned back. "Aw, don't be like that, Brookie," he toyed, using the nickname given to Brooke back when she had been a young girl in this very schoolhouse. Kris adored poking fun at his friend, who gasped and blushed among others but usually dished it out as often as she could take it. "A lot of young ladies would kick over their own grandmothers to be courted by me. I'm something special."

Brooke chuckled, crossing her arms at her chest. "Oh, you're something, alright." Though the two friends had rather stumbled into courtship, they both found it to be beneficial, leaving Brooke to focus on her career and dreams of traveling East to a university and Kris to police the town unfettered. Having the town imagine their relationship as a long courtship held more advantages than Kris could overlook; no doubt the young, handsome deputy would have every eligible female in the territory gunning for him if not for Brooke. If that were the case, Kris figured he'd rather take his chances with the Kings.

"We're still on for dinner tonight, right?" It was a reminder to Kris more than a request, the invitation from the preacher and his wife one that neither of them would care to miss. Kris enjoyed their suppers well enough, the pair always welcome at the tables of many of Hope's families, all eager to be the host for what everyone thought would be an inevitable marriage proposal. There were expectations to maintain so long as Kris was Hope's man of the law. Besides, Kris never passed up a free meal.

Accepting the preacher's kind invite and dramatically blowing a goodbye kiss to Brooke--more fuel to the fire, he realized, but after all _he_ wasn't the one getting burned--he left her to her students, ambling his way down Hope's main street, thoughts of the prized mutton the preacher's wife was sure to cook for the evening's festivities. The sun inched its way high above the humble buildings of Hope before Kris reached the end of his patrol, his time well spent chatting with the townspeople and keeping himself abreast of the local news of the day. Bo and his wife out on the Bice farm were expecting yet another child, the couple proving themselves to be both fertile and frisky, and Bo regaled Kris with stories of his wife's extreme food cravings--he had to special-order a case of pickled beets from Matt Giraud, who shook his head and simply commented, " _Women_." The crops surrounding Hope were doing well, though Kris could never understand how farmers like Bo could cultivate anything in the barren deserts of New Mexico besides cactus. Despite what the Indians often said, Kris didn't think one should really eat cactus unless they were desperate.

But there was one place in Hope that held more news in its rafters than the entire town combined, secrets both serious and scandalous, and well-treasured by its inhabitants all the same.

Though the last stop on Kris's daily patrol, it was located in the center of town, an ancient structure of hardy stucco and adobe and more than a few bullet holes to mark its age. In most towns such a place was a harbinger of danger and death, banished to the outskirts where it could do the least damage to good, Godfearing people. But Hope's local tavern and whorehouse already had its wild days decades ago, the shells embedded in its walls dating back to times when the territory spoke more Spanish than English and when men really did remember the Alamo. It found a peaceful coexistence with the town, Hope's residents turning a blind eye to the drunkenness and prostitution--which, many justified, were debatable sins, and were enjoyed by members of the town as well--and in turn, the tavern kept a strict code of conduct inside and out, handling rowdy travelers and drunken brawls with their own enforcement of justice.

In truth, Kris never needed to visit The Lambert Inn, his services were unnecessary there; he always wanted to be there.

Even in the height of day the inn was crowded with people, travelers eager to come in from the oppressive heat into a cool building and a cooler drink, as well as the brothel's residents and their regular patrons, greeting the morning in various stages of undress. Kris had been startled at the brazen openness of the inn's inhabitants when he first arrived to Hope two years ago, the joyful freedom he witnessed intriguing to his young mind; now it was commonplace, just another attraction to him of Hope's mild-mannered pleasure den. He received many a warm greeting from the women there, Kris's eligibility known to more than just the town's virtuous farmers' daughters.

Decorated as a stately, sumptuous hotel, the Lambert Inn had lofty intentions back when it was first constructed, long before Kris had even been a twinkle in his mother's eye, much less dreamed of moving to New Mexico. But the lawlessness that plagued the frontier left a blight upon Eber Lambert's dreams of a stylish, elegant hotel, directing the Lambert Inn towards a future of saloon brawls, gunfights, and more than its share of outlaws. But the behavior, as well as the inn's reputation, simmered once frontiersmen began to settle in the area, building the quaint town of Hope around the once notorious saloon. Kris remembered running his hand down one of the swaths of wallpaper in the front room the first time he came in; soft velvet, as extravagant as the day it was installed. If he had lived to see what his eldest son had made of the place, Eber surely would have been proud.

"Well, look what that wind blew in! A fine day to grace us with your presence, lawman! Tell me, is this a raid on our establishment, or have you finally decided to partake in our wares?"

The voice was familiar to Kris; the assistant manager of the Lambert Inn welcomed the deputy from behind his greeters' podium, location of the first and last smile and handshake one received at the saloon. The man was the physical opposite of the owner: short and brown-haired speckled blond from the sun, he stood with his arms wide and a bright, teeth-baring smile even wider to welcome Kris to the inn. Fully embracing the _laissez-faire_ atmosphere, his sleeves were cut short, exposing the many intricate tattoos he adorned himself with on the journey from his Seattle homeland to New Mexico. Kris wondered if the natives to this desert had only ever seen cherry blossoms like the ones inked onto Blake Lewis's skin.

Kris grinned, Blake's question as routine as the deputy's patrol, a slight variation on the small talk he encountered outside of the Lambert Inn. He loved to converse with the surprisingly intelligent emcee, decked out in a flashy red vest and gloves; and he never turned down a drink offered at the saloon, the bartender long since having discovered Kris's adoration for gimlets. But he never indulged in the other services they had to offer, though Sheriff Daughtry had told him about the peace agreement with the Lamberts regarding such affairs, providing the brothel stability and security for the occasional fringe benefit. The arrangements certainly changed once Daughtry died, the new sheriff not looking too kindly on the mutual benefit, but Kris's stance remained the same. Still, Blake always argued, it never hurt a man to try.

"No raid, not today," he replied, the warm smile reminding them both that there never would be a decency raid on the brothel, not so long as Kris Allen was the man enforcing Hope's laws and ordinances.

Even in the low lights of the inn, dimmed to set the mood for any patrons wandering in from the heat, Kris could see the waggle of Blake's eyebrows and see the suggestive glint in his eyes. "You're up for the latter, then?"

Shaking his head, Kris let the obvious answer the question for him. He never refused but he never accepted, either; Kris always paid close attention to formalities, and refusing a gift of what he had heard to be a very fine stock of young women could have offended the proprietor. He nodded over to the front room, where a small stage set for burlesque shows and other bawdy acts was being prepared for the evening's festivities. "It looks like you'll be mighty busy anyway without my business." Already men milled about the area, nursing drinks and ambling to get a good seat for what promised to be a delightfully dirty revue. Most were locals, the migrants along the Santa Fe trail typically riding into town later in the evening, but one traveler lounged at the bar, dressed all in black and peacefully sipping a mug of ale.

The emcee's pleasant, open expression soured; it was good business indeed, but not nearly as good as when Sheriff Daughtry was alive and sympathetic to the inn's necessary vice. "Not busy enough," he grumbled, keeping his voice low to keep the dire news from the customers that had arrived. No need to drive away the business that was already in the building. "Sheriff Gokey is making sure of that."

In the wake of Daughtry's untimely death, the town was searching for a new champion, someone to lift their spirits and maintain order lest Hope fall into the habits of the lawless West. Danny Gokey had fashioned himself as just that during his spectacular campaign, winning over voters with charm and promises instead of experience and substance--two elements his opponent, Hope's faithful deputy, held in spades but without the flash or dazzle. He stressed the importance of maintaining Hope's roots, claiming that only a native son could enforce its laws and bring peace to its streets. Being one of the aldermen's close relations didn't hurt him any when the ballots were counted, and it was Kris who was left feeling ousted by the very town he adopted as his. Gokey, a smooth talker but lazy and cowardly, kept Kris on as his deputy once discovering there were actual duties to his new title, and regularly sent him off to do Hope's dirty work while the sheriff raked in the glory.

Ironically, Gokey's platform of Hope's heritage cleverly excluded the pleasure den the town was built around, and his first order of business--in the best interests of the townspeople, of course--was to shut down the Lambert Inn. He sent Kris there on an almost daily basis, attempting to enforce ancient decency laws and fabricating new ordinances and fines, hacking tiny chinks into the inn's solid foundations in the area, leaving the business as weary and pockmarked as the building itself. Kris tried to ignore Gokey's attempts as much as he could, find loopholes in the ambitious sheriff's laws that the inn could navigate through, but the effort was trying for both parties involved. Kris didn't make the laws, he just enforced them; and with gritted teeth, he still had to answer to a sheriff who probably couldn't shoot a revolver if his pride depended on it.

Neither Kris Allen nor the staff of the Lambert Inn had any love for Sheriff Danny Gokey, and while their resentments were kept well-hidden in view of the rest of the town, those emotions bubbled to the surface in private.

"What's he doing now," Kris groaned, the quality of life efforts of his new boss growing more troublesome by the day. Sensing Kris was less than enthusiastic about cracking down on the Lambert Inn, Gokey had begun to take matters into his own hands--through craftily written form letters, of course, and never personally. It was the Gokey touch.

"Decency complaints." Blake looked sullenly over at the Lambert Inn's front parlor, the amateur revues held there the only touch of class he'd seen in the entire territory. If Gokey had his way, that wonderful noise would be silenced. "He's decided he'll lose a battle with the town over the ladies...but our gentlemen are fair game."

Kris's mouth went dry, and he clenched his jaw to keep it from hanging open in protest. The expressive freedom within the walls of the Lambert Inn extended to more than just the dress code: the brothel was known for its inclusive nature, housing prostitutes of all races and creeds, and both sexes as well. The owner once explained to Kris over brandy that every man has his special sexual vice, whether it be desiring company from a Nubian princess--Syesha was her name, though she was a former slave from Florida who never knew her African ancestors--or partaking in the delights of a young Tejano--David Hernandez, with his limber body and seductive stare, was the most popular. The Lambert Inn was merely providing the supply for a demand that already existed, and did no more damage to Hope than any other service the inn had to offer. Gokey was looking at any angle he could find to take down the establishment; he was throwing every ordinance he could think of at it and seeing what would stick.

In the two short years Kris had moved to Hope, he grew to love everything and everyone in the town, down to the last matchstick, and that included the residents of the Lambert Inn, who may not have worked in the same manner as the cattle ranchers or farmers but worked hard all the same. It made the bile rise in his throat to watch Danny Gokey try to raise his reputation at their expense.

His thoughts returned to the conversation, where Blake was muttering some choice words about how he'd show the sheriff where he could stick his "godly" self if he had the chance. "Your boss is breaking up _my_ boss about this," he said, referring to the inn's owner. "He's gonna fight it but if he loses, it's serious charges and fines Gokey's trying to pull. He's upstairs in his room right now, ranting his head off."

Nodding grimly in sympathy, Kris assured Blake that whatever measures he could take to dodge Danny's attacks, he would; he was sore over losing the sheriff position to Gokey but he still loved this town and wouldn't allow him to threaten any part to stoke his own pride. The two said their goodbyes after Kris once again humbly declined the services of one of the inn's residents, and once Kris stepped back into the daylight, squinting from the direct sunlight, he doubled back towards the back of the building, his daily rounds completed.

Though he didn't fault him for it, Kris knew Blake's words weren't the truth: the owner of the Lambert Inn wasn't in his room above the parlor, seething over Sheriff Gokey's new ordinances. He was waiting behind the building, lizard-skin boots kicking up clouds of dust, sunlight glinting off the glass rhinestones sewn onto his shirt. Exactly where Kris told him to be.

***

There were a million things Adam could have said to Kris when he approached him, the alley behind his inherited Lambert Inn smelling of sweat and sex from employees and patrons meeting off the books. He wanted to tell the deputy he was late, complain that he had been waiting there, probably cooking up a harsh sunburn in the process, and he had much more important things to do than minding his minutes for a man of the law. The sheriff's decency complaints set against the inn made him livid, his face darkened to a stony, tight-lipped expression while in the front parlor so as not to cause a stir among clients and employees alike; there was no point in making a scene. Besides, he had a saloon to manage, the pride of the father modified and perfected by the son, and he couldn't very well do that while waiting in an alley for Kris Allen.

But Adam's mouth was currently too occupied to make any arguments on the matter, his head bowing low to drag his teeth along Kris's neck, feeling the pulse there quicken under his skin. He knew he would have waited until the end of fucking time for this.

He took a sharp nip at Kris's square jawline, growling in contentment as he produced a soft moan from the deputy, eyes squeezed shut, immersing himself in the pleasure. Stepping into the shadows, Kris's mouth was on Adam's before the New Mexico sand could settle at their feet, both speed and stealth their only friends at the moment. It had been Kris's idea--no, his request--to meet behind the Lambert Inn after the deputy's rounds, and while the rational conscience in Adam's mind warned that being in the open together like this was dangerous, possibly damning, he couldn't help but smile wickedly at the thrill of it all.

The alleyway was wide enough for a horse's carriage to wedge through, the buildings far enough away to prevent a fire from spreading from one to the other, but Adam had hauled a pickle barrel to its center to give the pair more cover. Kris's legs were braced against that pickle barrel now, boots digging into its iron rings as his back pressed against the rough stucco of the inn's exterior wall. The only things holding him up were the precariously-placed barrel, Adam's arms snaked around his waist, and sheer luck.

Trailing a lazy tongue up to Kris's ear, Adam held him securely in position, Kris's frame supported by sure arms, Adam driving into him as if his weight were held aloft by clouds. "This," Adam mumbled into his ear, hot breath tickling against Kris's throat, the pressure inside of him pushing up to the surface with each of Adam's thrusts. "Was a very good idea."

Adam's teeth captured an earlobe and Kris had to bite his lip not to cry out, lest they be detected. That would certainly damage the image of innocent, prolonged courtship he and Brooke were trying to pull off. He tasted blood but it didn't matter, nothing was of serious consequence when Adam was between his legs like this, buried deep inside him and working them both into euphoria. Not even the troubles caused by the new sheriff were of any mind to either of them at that moment, the rest of the town fading away to a dull buzz compared to the soft panting at Kris's ear, intensifying every sensation, every emotion.

Adam tasted the drawn blood on Kris's lips, the sweat that permeated his skin during his daily patrol, all of his senses heightened and every inch of his body longing to _feel_. Kris's left arm grabbed at Adam's bicep as he moaned shamelessly into his mouth, the noise now muffled by the both of them, and squeezed hard enough to bruise through Adam's shirt, the dull pain blossoming into pleasure as Adam worked to hold onto Kris as he thrust himself in deeper, faster. Theirs was a hasty encounter and they both remained fully clothed, Kris's pants down to his knees, his revolver holster still strapped to his shoulders underneath a vest. His other hand went to his own cock, fingers wrapping around it in a desperate need for contact, for release, his grip as solid as it was on Adam's arm.

Adam felt the pressure coiling in Kris's body, knew that it wouldn't be long now for either of them. He sped up his pace, Kris's shoulderblades knocking against the back wall, wishing he could raise his arms to wipe the sweat beading on Kris's forehead, to cradle his cheek in his hand as he came. But practicality called for a strong grip on Kris, and if he did not want to drop the deputy on his ass--and such a pleasant ass to drop, and at such an inopportune time--he needed to resist that urge. Instead he explored the flesh along Kris's jawline with his mouth as his hips rolled, feeling the low vibrations of a moan in Kris's throat, tasting the sweat Adam proudly recalled he was causing.

Kris felt the shudder course through his body as he finally gave in to the pleasure Adam was giving him, head rolling back and scraping against the exterior of the inn as he came, exposing his neck to Adam's wicked ministrations and letting lose an uninhibited moan. His cock jerked in his hand, spilling himself upon the both of them, body wracked with so much sensation and exertion he thought he might collapse, or explode, or possibly both. A gentle voice soothed him through his aftershocks, a thin shushing sound from Adam's lips turning into a sharp hiss as the other man reached his breaking point, the pair holding each other close, shaking.

"Since when are you ever quiet?" Kris mused, the rough grip on Adam's arm melting into a soft caress, kneading his thumb slightly into trembling, overused muscles.

He received a satisfied purr in response, Adam's work on the tender flesh at Kris's jaw still not complete. "I understand modesty, Kristopher," he said, the amusement evident in his weary voice. Owning and operating a brothel had its advantages: Adam learned early on that his moans of pleasure simply melted into the chorus of voices at the Lambert Inn, one indistinguishable from the next, and since then he found no reason to pretend to enjoy a quiet fuck. Kris knew of this quality of Adam's well; he was usually the cause of such moans.

A crooked smile spread across Kris's lips, his legs aching from their position against the pickle barrel but he wasn't ready to move out of Adam's arms, not yet. "You lie," he called Adam out on his claim, poking the older man squarely in the chest. "You've never been modest in your life."

Adam let the comment slide with a chaste kiss to Kris's temple, his body shivering after suddenly realizing the absence of Kris sheathed all around him. "I'm modest when I'm fucking you in a backalley," he reasoned, finding delight in the irony of the remark. "And what kind of an idea was this, anyway?"

It was the perfect idea, one sparked with thrill and the danger of being caught, and Kris knew full well Adam enjoyed every second of it. "Thought your bedroom was getting kinda boring," he teased, an Arkansas drawl seeping into his voice.

"My bedroom is not _boring._ " Kris eased himself onto his sore legs so Adam's arms could be free to rest akimbo against his waist in full protest, head to the side, hips cocked, daring Kris to disprove him. "My bedroom is _fabulous_ and you know it. I had some of those fabrics shipped from Europe, dammit, and that armoire is French, it didn't come from no Macy's catalog."

Kris had no other response but a smile, warm and infectious, his eyes cast upwards so familiarly to look the taller man in the eye. "I love you," the words came out easily, as they always did, soft and meaningful like flower petals brushed delicately against the skin.

The indignation in Adam's face softened to deep affection, his lips curling into a smile as the hand on his bicep moved upwards, palming the back of his neck to pull him down closer to Kris. "I love you, too," he breathed, feeling the warmth of the words wash over him in a much different way than his emotions played during sex, hot and staccato sharp, like pinpricks or devils' thorns. He let Kris kiss him, the deputy's lips moving slow and deliberate, less concerned with being caught than savoring the moment, reveling in the sensations they shared.

His badge was his duty: he'd give his all to protect the town, breaking through the fear, willing to kill for their safety; willing to die. But it wasn't _everything_ in his life, nor was it even the most important thing: that honor went to the hand he held, the lips he kissed, blue-gray eyes striking as they shined back at him, grateful for every moment they had. Kris had certainly found himself out on the plain, and while the prospects of fortune and fame were still to come, he comforted himself in the warm embrace of his love.

Hope was why he came, but he stayed for something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical note:** The Lambert Inn was a real establishment back in the New Mexico territory in the days of the old West. I stumbled across the information while doing research for this fic (as if I wouldn't do research!) and figured out it was the best way to introduce Adam and Kris's characters. Never a legal brothel, the Lambert Inn was a hotel and restaurant created by Henry Lambert in 1872, a little later than I set it here in order for Eber Lambert to have built it before Adam was born. It was known for being an outlaw hotspot, and had housed such famous names as Jesse James and the Earp brothers. It was also the location where Buffalo Bill Cody met Annie Oakley and put her in his Wild West show. It's still standing, though now it's called the St. James Hotel, in Cimarron, New Mexico. You can read more about the hotel here:  
>  http://www.legendsofamerica.com/nm-stjameshotel.html
> 
> Hope, New Mexico, is an actual town, though I fudged with the dates of its creation. Founded around the turn of the century it's a small town along the Hope Highway which heads through the Southeast part of the state. These days the town only has about 100 inhabitants, so not many more than back in the days of _Outlaw's Prayer_.
> 
> And since I never mentioned it in the story, I'll say it here, since I know it well enough: the story takes place in the year 1879, and any historical details I include--like the names of the outlaws Kris mentions in this episode, as well as the dates of development for Tulsa and Blue Springs--I tried to keep as accurate as possible. That's just the crazy in me :)


	12. Chapter 12

_"I will get every man who killed [them]. I will not stop killing until I do, and I will never be taken alive." - Tom Starr, after the murders of his father and brother_

 

"I ain't your personal Wells Fargo, Cook."

The remark was one he had heard before, and it was accompanied by an easygoing smile spread across Ryan Star's face. David always took Ryan's grumblings with a grain of salt, his complaints the cowboy's special brand of endearment. If Ryan had wanted to end this business agreement, it would have already been over years ago; David would have never let a man he didn't trust get so close to the Kings, let alone entrust him with his correspondence with Kelly. Ryan had proven himself loyal time and again, and while he opted to earn his money in more conventional and legal ways than the Kings, David made sure to let him know he was welcome.

"That you aren't," he replied, handing over his most recent letter and receiving one in return. "You're better then Wells Fargo. You never get robbed." Ryan rode through the frontier in a state of security; no one dared cross a friend of the Kings, outlaw nor lawman, lest their retaliation be swift and excruciating. Ryan himself was no Pony Express orphan: tall and lanky, the Jewish cowboy rode proudly in his own right, and like any man planning to stay alive he could handle his own in a gunfight. Just because he had no taste for the outlaw life did not mean he was incapable.

Sometimes a letter was all that awaited David in Ryan's satchel, Kelly's words succinct and practical, never revealing anything crucial in case their missives fell into the wrong hands. Sometimes the packages held a small trinket, a token of affection condensed into the earthen clay of a poker chip, the delicate leaves of a pressed flower between sheets of linen. David kept everything, despite having very few places to hold his many memories on the road; he had even contemplated swapping out the group's bulky cooking tools Kyle bore upon Gangles's back, but decided against it, not quite trusting the kid to hold onto something David deemed so valuable.

And he had sent back anything, everything that reminded him of her, knowing she kept them as close to her heart as he did for her. A beaded white blanket he had been told was an old Manakata courtship gift, from a tribe's warrior to the woman he loved. A golden scarf pin he had taken from a wealthy banker in South Dakota, the pristine blue of the gem in the center hearkening him back to the blue waters of Burleson's creek. He never sent a ring, fearing the gesture would be too bold, but once to Ryan's befuddlement he handed him a dressmaking pattern for a skirt, with a brief note lovingly reminding her he would love her all the same either way.

This time his letter included a sprig of dried black hyacinth, its scent still strong even weeks after he had found the determined flowers sprouting after a desert rain, destined to wither and die in the next day's sun but still soldiering on. The scent would fade eventually, he surmised, and the petals would one day crumble into dust, but the sentiment would always be there.

"You're sending a flower." Ryan deadpanned as David pulled the cinches tight on a leather drawstring pouch, the hyacinth safely inside.  
He responded with a quirk of his eyebrow. Ryan was one to talk; he had a woman of his own stashed away in one of the territories, never breathing a word about her to David or the other Kings, and while on the trail he kept her favor tucked away in his pocket, unseen by any eyes but his.

"I'm sending a flower," he confirmed, his matter-of-fact tone daring Ryan to question it further.

Ryan shrugged, his thoughts not on the content of the gift but of its value. "Thought a gunslinger like you would put a little more bread into his offerings." He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together through thick leather gloves. One needn't be a confidante of the Kings to know they fared more than decently on their bank heists. "Drown his girl in gold and diamonds. Get her nothing but the best."

Diamonds were too rare on the range and could possibly be traced if he stole them; he had given her fine gold jewelry and coins a number of times, but they felt impersonal, cold. Every time David tried to imagine Kelly adorning herself in jewels and glittering gold, he instead saw only his silver star pendant around her neck on the leather cord, her smile and the light in her eyes outshining any precious metal. With the money he had raised from the Kings's heists he could buy her the world, but he knew that all she would truly desire from him was to have him in her arms once more.

"It's the thought that counts," David noted, but as he tossed the pouch over to Ryan, the older man felt the weight of the gift inside the pouch, heard the unmistakable clink of gold and silver rattle along with the hyacinth blossoms. Minted coins, too easy to trace if the Kings bartered with them on the open plain, but easy enough to melt down and reserve; Kelly, so close to her banker father, would have known this for years now, known exactly where and how to hide David's amassed fortune. David Cook was a sentimental one, Ryan realized, but he was far from stupid.

The gift was only the first matter of business between the two: besides being David's well-paid personal courier, Ryan also carried crucial news along with him on the range, inside information that would never be published in the newspapers. David always made sure to ask Ryan to put his ear to the ground for them, and always threw in hefty compensation for his troubles.

"A nasty gunfight up north," Ryan recalled as the scent of grilling meat wafted towards the two men; Kyle and Joey were at the fire preparing supper, the kid carefully watching the sizzling pan of bacon while Joey grumbled about the lack of beans in their supplies. Neal once again perched towards the horizon, the scowl scrawled across his face unable to be lifted even with Ryan's presence. Kyle kept his distance not out of fear but respect: he understood now why the Dr. needed his space, especially on the long days Andy was off gathering information in the latest town on their travels. "Nothing out of the ordinary, though; heard it was over a woman."

David chuckled, opening his arms wide for effect. "Ah, the power of love," his voice boomed with grandiosity, distracting Kyle momentarily from his task, noticing that Joey had suddenly become keenly aware of Ryan's presence at camp. "It does us all in, eventually. Either by the gun--" he pointed his finger as if it were a revolver, mimicking cocking the hammer with his thumb. Aiming at the silver band on Ryan's left hand, David pretended to press the trigger. "--or by the finger."

"Watch it," Ryan warned good-naturedly, protectively covering his ringed finger with his other hand. Regardless of David's musings, the argument Ryan had heard occurred at Holliday's saloon did happen over a woman, but the men were hardly battling for her love. And most disputes that ended by the gun weren't newsworthy enough for the Kings, but from what Ryan heard about the aftermath of the shooting, he deemed it near essential. "There's a whole investigation underway, the law got right on top of ol' Holliday even before the smoke cleared."

The smile faded from David's face, replaced with an expression of deep concern. "How--"

"A posse rolling through town," he quickly supplied, already knowing the question David was about to ask. Rarely a gunfight ended in arrests so soon after the fact, especially when the man left standing was a respectable citizen defending what was left of a woman's honor. "Got their noses into it on their way." Ryan leaned in, his voice low for sake of secrecy, though the wind still picked up his words and carried them towards Kyle's ears, hushed but distinct. "Though from what I heard, it wasn't the most orderly of arrests. It's a posse alright, but word has it they've got nothing to do with _law_."

Looking grim, David nodded once, urging Ryan to continue. Bounty hunters commonly rustled up groups of hired guns in a town if they planned to smoke out an outlaw, but it was rare for a posse to follow a wanted man, particularly across territory lines. Rarely even a lawman cared enough to chase an outlaw out of his jurisdiction. This seemed to have the markings of a personal vendetta, which was thankfully, David thought, not the Kings's style.

"We're not the ones they're looking for?" David raised an eyebrow; the question still needed to be asked. It was never safe to be under the nose of a posse, but if the group was so hell-bent on their prey, the Kings could bypass them unscathed.

He didn't realize the tension coiled into his veins until Ryan shook his head and it all released in a relieved sigh, David's shoulders feeling instantly lighter. "Talked with one of the witnesses at Holliday's; said they were looking for a man out of Arizona."

"Haven't been around there in over a year," David replied. No one held a grudge over a robbed bank for that long; Prescott probably wouldn't have even been able to rustle up a judge who could care enough to convict them.

"Looks like you and your boys dodged a bullet, then." The business end of their meeting complete, Ryan tipped his hat to the outlaw and gave a parting wave towards Kyle and Joey; he knew better than to say goodbye to Neal as he would get nothing in response. "Better get a move on. Want to head back to that town a few miles up." He hiked his thumb towards the direction of Hope, a devilish smile on his face. "Heard the saloon's a fine one. Brothel ain't too bad, either." Behind the courier's back Neal deepened his scowl; the timbre of Ryan's voice tended to travel farther than he thought.

David said his goodbyes to Ryan with a handshake full of coin, the precious metals guaranteed to be valuable wherever the rider's travels would next take him. Kyle offered their extra ration of supper to him, but Ryan respectfully declined, stating that he and bacon didn't make a winning combination.

"Guess those beans really would have come in handy," Kyle joked with Joey once the rider had departed, his figure scratching a long shadow across the ground by the sunset. He waited for a laugh and a quick retort, the typical response from the sandy-haired outlaw, but Joey was silent, staring off in the distance after Ryan's retreating shadow. His eyes were cloudy, a frown upon his face, and Kyle couldn't recall in the months he had been with the Kings another time when Joey had ever been so _quiet_.

Kyle narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge the strange expression on Joey's face; he had seen him content before, always up for a quick laugh, charmingly taking a joke three steps farther than anyone cared to hear. And he had seen Joey's anger, the emotion overboiling like a coffeepot on the kiln. He wished he were a better observer, like Andy, or more attuned to judge a man's character, like David; Kyle felt this wasn't a matter Joey was going to easily discuss. "Joey?" he asked hesitatingly. "...You okay?"

Joey looked up as if in a daze, barely registering Kyle's question at all. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, focused on the words they had overheard, conversations Kyle had dismissed as typical small talk, not even important enough to bring the familiar yet serious contemplative look to David's face. "What? Oh...fine. I'm fine, Kid." He stuttered the words, caught off-guard by Kyle's concern, and wandered away, the burrs in Gilbert's hair suddenly of more interest to him than answering any more of Kyle's questions.

With the bacon quickly sizzling and burning in the cooking pan, Kyle's attentions turned back to his task at hand, now short one outlaw to help him. He hadn't reconsidered Joey's strange turn in behavior again that night, though the characteristically cheerful man was as quiet as a corpse at camp, until the Kings gathered for a completed yet slightly charred supper. Ever the crowd-pleasing leader, David tried to compensate for the silence with wild stories he had both heard and experienced, but the atmosphere was not the same. Normally Kyle would have scrambled to hear David's lurid tale of the stolen stagecoach and the governor's daughter, but the sunny disposition David held while storytelling felt forced, filling up the awkward silence.

Even Neal, making it a personal mission to be stoic and standoffish that evening, commented on Joey's strange behavior. For the Dr. to be a man of few words was commonplace; for Joey it was unnerving. "Something crawl up your longjohns and nest there?" he asked, a remark that normally would have Joey cracking a joke with a grin, but this time he was unresponsive, sluggish even in noticing Neal addressed him. "You're lookin' damn rough, Clement."

Joey assured the other Kings that he was fine, and once again Kyle didn't believe him, the sneaking suspicion that something Joey had heard in David and Ryan's conversation was the cause. If he had only known what it was, he could have tried to help Joey fix it, look out for the older man like the other outlaws had watched out for him. But not even David knew the story behind Joey's past, what had brought him to the life of an outlaw; there were some questions Kyle knew he should not ask, questions to which he would never receive a truthful answer.

***

"There's law in that town." Andy grasped the mug of coffee and whiskey in both palms, the metal tankard warming his fingers after an unseasonably cold ride back to camp. Kyle had been developing his skills at brewing coffee over the months he camped with the Kings, but Andy, who didn't care for the stuff much less Kyle's particular blend, still smuggled in a swallow of liquor from Neal's flask.

The statement didn't even cause David to raise his eyes from the fire, his mind deeply rooted in the planning stages of a heist from which very little, even the warnings of Andy Skib, could rouse him. There was very little variation in their strategies from town to town merely because the banks themselves held little variety: all the tellers, the locks, were the same, and even the safes started all blurring together in David's mind. "What makes that different than anywhere else we've been?" he asked, faces of countless ineffectual sheriffs running through his head, some who met a bad end at the barrel of David's revolver, others too apathetic or terrified to do their jobs and fight back.

Riding with the Kings on the other side of the law--a line that blurred at best in most lands--Kyle learned much about the duality of sheriffs, their true nature as complicated as that of an outlaw. While most established towns had elected sheriffs charged to police the town and protect it from outside dangers, rarely did they find a man willing to live up to the job. If the case did not affect them personally sheriffs hardly ever pursued a crime, preferring to save their own skin over any idealized notions of restoring justice. Rallying oneself up against the Kings was a tall order; if any sheriff ever had the courage to face the outlaws, David always joked, they wouldn't be a sheriff, hanging around a town, bullying drunks and waiting for something actually interesting to ride in. Bounty hunters chased after the Kings for the rewards on their heads; lawmen did it for the thrill and a cold, calculating way of hunting and shooting down prey other than buffalo. Sheriffs typically donned a badge for the steady paycheck, and let other authorities take care of outlaw gangs.

But the grim expression on Andy's face told him this case might be different. "This town they actually seem to _care_ about their gunmen. Got a sheriff _and_ a deputy, though from what I've heard there isn't much love between the two." He had seen the deputy himself, expertly eavesdropping on his conversation with the doorman at the local brothel; the enmity on the man's face was nearly palpable when mentions of the sheriff drifted into their conversation. It was something to investigate, surely, if the need would arise. It all depended on how fast the outlaws could get out of that bank and back on the road out of New Mexico.

"Only means more targets to me," Neal smirked, half-joking.

Andy shook his head, taking a sip from the mug. "You didn't see this guy," he said. Short and slight, the deputy looked even less of a threat than Kyle, a clean-shaven face giving away both his optimism and his youth. But what he may have lacked in age and experience--an appearance that, Andy cautioned himself, that fooled many presumptuous men about the young Kings themselves--anyone from here to Cimarron could see he made up for in integrity. The deputy carried himself with a confidence that wasn't arrogant, but more like secure in his duty to the town: he would protect it always, and unlike others sworn into his profession he was willing to give his life for it. "He cares about this town...these people."

"You think he'll care enough to stop us?" Kyle spoke up, overriding propriety. Ever since Fox Canyon he sat back and, as Joey called it, watched the magic of the three senior Kings as they communicated through looks, clipped words, and slightest nods of the head that Kyle couldn't even pick up in the flickering light of a fire. But there were times he knew to step back and let more experienced heads prevail; and sometimes, even the greenhorn knew to take action.

Andy shrugged; he was an observer, not a mind reader. "The sheriff himself, from what I've gathered, cares less about protecting the town and more about doing what'll make him look good."

"Sounds like a sheriff," Joey said lowly, arms crossed against his chest. He was even more distant than usual, taking frequent glances over his shoulder and voice falling down to a grumble that even Kyle, who sat next to him, could barely hear. Andy could tell something was amiss with him the moment he rode back into camp, but it wasn't his part to pry; he did enough spying for the day in Hope, and Joey's secrets were his to keep. 

"The deputy's hard-willed but he's still just a dep. Going against a sheriff could mean he's in the clink himself. And, win or lose--" Andy looked up from his mug, briefly catching the gaze of Neal from across the camp's fire. "He won't get the best of us."

A silence of doubt drifted through the campsite, the seeds planted by Andy's report and cultivated in each outlaw's imagination. The shadow's last remark was woefully unconvincing. Kyle thought of the training he had endured over the past few months, and he hoped he would not be forced to put those skills to the test. It was quite different shooting at a cactus, he realized, than shooting back at another man.

"It doesn't matter."

It was David who broke the silence, a determined, thoughtful glare boring into the deepest heat of the fire, the flames casting shadows across his face, darkening his eyes. Never had he looked more like a stoic leader of men; never had he looked more like a seasoned veteran of the outlaw life, who had seen men put down into their graves and dreaded witnessing more. "Sheriff, deputy...I don't care if the whole town's been deputized and armed to the teeth. We're going in there, and we do what we came here to do." David had only backed down from robbing a bank once, and an idealistic deputy was hardly the reason.

His deadly serious tone and the unflinching expression on his face brought a reinvigorated spirit to the outlaws, turning downtrodden faces into determined nods, uncertain silence into confidence. With his charisma and skill to back up his boldness he could have been a general in a former life, heralding armies to victory, inspiring men to fight, live or die on the battlefields. He could have won the confidences of millions, of entire nations; become a country's hero. But he was born in this life, in a doomed little homestead in Missouri to a doomed little family, trailing his life from one heist to the next. And in this life, his only victory was inciting the Kings to rob the town of Hope blind, no matter what the consequence.

David looked each outlaw in the eye, staring them down until his conviction bore into them like a Colt's bullet right through to the brain. It took months after that night for Kyle to realize David's speech was to exorcise his own demons, battle against his own fears about a lawman's bullet stealing his chances of ever seeing his Kelly again. "And if we've got to kill every gunman in town to do it...then let it be done."

***

_Feed and water the horses. Loosen their tethers so they won't be so wild when you start to ride. Douse and dirt the fire; scatter the ashes to make it look natural instead of a campfire._

Kyle repeated his own instructions to himself as he worked industriously in the dark, his skills at striking camp perfected over the months with the Kings. It was like second nature to him now, knowing the temperaments of each outlaw's horse--how Sugarfoot had to be approached by her right flank, the way her beloved left-handed owner approached, or how Sixx would become so friendly after being fed he would attempt to lick Kyle's face like a lapdog. The Kings's horses were all saddled now, each steed energized and ready for an anxious wait and then a breakneck escape after the heist. Before the outlaws would dismount, leaving Kyle alone with their horses to serve as lookout, he had to promise David, as he did before every robbery now, that he would not spearhead another stampede.

The days were getting shorter now, with winter rearing its icy head just beyond the horizon, sending cold breezes past them in the New Mexican predawn. By midday it would be sweltering again, a wilting heat that made Kyle want to droop in his saddle and collapse, but for now the crisp air cast a cold, forbidding feeling across the desert, from the numbness in Kyle's fingertips to the visible, fogged breath of the horses.

The only one not with them now was Andy, who as always left in the dead of night to return to his position as an innocent traveler in Hope, trying not to boast about the luxurious accommodations at the Lambert Inn. Kyle wondered if it had been as cool when Andy left as it was now, if the still air had felt just as cold and ominous.

When he had been on the ranch, cold snaps like this--while not nearly as extreme in California as out here on the unprotected range--always meant a time of harvest, discovering the fruits of their labor in the fields, bringing in the Peek family livestock for sale and slaughter. Now, as he gave his silent nod to the other Kings, each man taking the reins of his mount and setting off for Hope, just like back home, the cold meant it was time to reap what they had sown.

***

Empty. The streets of Hope were empty, the townspeople taking refuge from the cold and returning to their houses, the patterns of their everyday lives disrupted by the weather. The day would undoubtedly warm, as desert autumns tended to do, and the town would go about their busy, carefree lives, albeit a bit behind schedule.

The emptiness was unnerving Andy Skib to no end.

In normal circumstances--a bustling, cheery town center, with Hope's inhabitants blissfully going about their business and greeting each other with the warmth of a closely-knit community--Andy could blend in flawlessly, slipping in between shadows and being cleverly overlooked in the crowds of the morning. It was how he worked best, especially on the day of a heist: hiding in plain sight, he could keep watch on the bank as his fellow Kings raided its coffers without anyone being the wiser of his presence. Andy discovered early on in their adventures how convincing he could be when feigning shock at the news of a bank just being robbed.

But in Hope there was no place to hide, no spur of wagon wheel dust or the buzzing chatter of the early morning. The bank, made only of wooden beams and timber and not nearly as solid as the oldest building, the inn, was at the center of town, with a clear view of the saloon, the main street storefronts...and the sheriff's office. The late risers of Hope were a detriment for some reasons, but a blessing for others; with any luck the streets could be as deserted as they had ever seen them, as empty and unassuming as Fox Canyon.

Andy squeezed his slender frame into an alleyway with a clear shot of the bank's entrance, hiding his shadow behind an old pickle barrel. He remembered the idealist little deputy, who made up with resolve what he lacked in experience, and how Andy monitored his daily routine of patrolling the town.

This was no Fox Canyon; Andy wasn't going to let another deadly detail get by him again.

***

Hope was built in a desolate plain, with no mountains or crevices to hide from the elements or deadly desert predators, animal or otherwise. A small irrigation channel ran by its western border, with one hard-packed dirt road leading in and out of the town. David needn't even have asked his intelligence gatherer to guess it was dubbed Main Street; they all were, and Hope was no different.

He handed Sugarfoot's reins over to Kyle, his backup already dismounted and anxious for action. As a model of its citizens' hospitable Christian behavior, Hope was a weaponless town--only the sheriff and his men were allowed to carry firearms in public. While many other towns also touted this virtuous law, rarely did any of its inhabitants ever abide by it, choosing instead to conceal their guns with shoulder holsters or underneath heavy dusters, Andy said the town overwhelmingly supported the new rules, the law of Hope in a state of flux that left the town wide open for invasion.

David narrowed his eyes at the boom town, the fledgling bank dwarfed by the established adobe brothel at the center of town. The ironies dwelling on each side street and avenue here were rich enough to eat with a spoon, but David had no time to ponder them; he had a bank to rob.

"Come on, fellas," he said, taking the lead and feeling Joey and Neal's presences behind him, falling into step, guns at the ready. "Let's show them what we got."

***

It was Matt Giraud at the dry goods store that saw the outlaws first, watched initially with sleep-blurred eyes as he opened his shop up for business that morning. The sun was barely over the horizon, casting deep shadows of the outlaws across Main Street, the illusion making them look larger than life. It was that same sun that betrayed them: Giraud would have taken them just as early morning travelers, making their way along the road towards California's sunny coasts or Texas's liquid riches, if it had not been for the sunlight glinting off their guns.

There was little else he could do but run as the trio made a beeline for the bank, their steps hurried but solid and deliberate, and they burst the door open with a stunning force. There was no one else on the street at that hour, the town giving in to their comfortable desires and sleeping off the morning chill. He had to tell someone; he had to warn them.

He had no firearm of his own; as the adrenaline pumped in Giraud's ears, a hand clamped over his mouth to stop himself from panting so audibly as he ran, he regretted not keeping a shotgun underneath the store's countertop as others had suggested to him. He thought it was too risky, citing that someone out to rob him could very easily turn the tables and steal the shotgun from him, or consider him a deadly threat and shoot him down before Giraud ever got to loading the gun's bulky cartridges. Hope was a safe place to live, he thought, with good, pleasant citizens and righteous men of the law; he would never require such a thing, and with his luck would probably shoot off his own foot in the process.

Giraud slipped out the back door of the store, careful not to catch the attention of the man standing watch by the bank's door, menacing shotgun in hand, and then ran as fast as his legs could take him, the dirt and loose pebbles of the hard-packed earth kicking up underneath his soles, slowing him down and nearly knocking him off balance. He heard the shouts in the bank and prayed they did not escalate to gunshots, not before it was too late.

Reaching his destination in record time, it took him a moment and a few gulps of cold morning air before he could finally get out his words, the only inhabitant of the building holding his breath, already knowing from the panic struck on Giraud's face the news would be dire.

"Bank...bank robbery," Matt gasped out, clutching onto the doorframe of the sheriff's office. His bleary eyesight cleared instantly when he knew it had mattered, and the faces he saw break into Hope's bank were known throughout the West. "You gotta get there, fast. It's the Kings."

A lump of fear instantly formed deep in Danny Gokey's stomach, mouth hung open in shock, and despite all his mind's warnings his legs took him out of the sheriff's office and running down towards the bank, leaving behind in his haste the holster carrying his sheriff's revolver, hanging off the armrest of his chair.

***

"One minute!"

David dug into his shirt pocket as Joey called out their time remaining inside the bank, only sixty seconds until Kyle would be ready with the horses and the four of them could make an effective escape. The metallic clinking of coins sagged heavily in his sack, and rustling behind him indicated Neal was also taking his fill. It'd be a godsend if these territories switched to reliable bank notes instead of using precious metals as their standard; all this heavy lifting was murder on David's back.

"You've been right hospitable today, sir," David couldn't mask the gleeful condescension in his voice, self-satisfied grin reaching his eyes and spreading all over his face. The bank owner trembled where he stood, half-hiding behind a ficus. He had surrendered quickly and bartered sparing his own life for the contents of the safe. David never mentioned to him that the negotiation was unnecessary: he never actually wanted to kill the banker, and the Kings planned to take that money whether or not the solitary bank owner allowed them to.

Handing him a playing card they had picked up from a deck in Colorado, David flashed the banker a grin, another heist successfully ended. The King of Hearts stared back at the banker, who was shaking like a wheat stalk in a twister, the figure's sword stoically pointed towards his own head. "You tell the rest of your town 'good morning' for us," David quipped, tipping his hat in an ironic gesture of courtesy, as his compatriots made their quick exit. He probably would have liked Hope some, if he hadn't been so intent on robbing it. "It's been a pleasure."

***

The sun's rays were already blinding, racing across the landscapes of the town as Danny himself ran to the scene of the crime, his ears thundering with adrenaline and fear. There was little else he wanted to do than bury himself underneath his sheriff's desk and wait for everything to blow over--or perhaps discover it had all been a terrible nightmare. But Matt Giraud had come directly to him once the robbery broke out, and Danny knew he couldn't even attempt to feign ignorance later.

He wished he had stayed an extra hour in bed, the warm security of the covers mocking him now as the cold breezes of the morning hit him head-on as he ran. Then perhaps that carpetbagger deputy of his might have been in the office instead of him; Kris seemed always up for a new way to prove his loyalty for the town, and God knew he was eager enough.

If only that damn deputy was here, he thought, then Kris might be the target for the Kings's bullets rather than him.

The front door to the bank was already crushed in, the splinters littering Main Street, and while Danny heard no commotion from inside, no gunshots or rage-filled shouts, he wasn't anywhere near willing to get closer and investigate. With a swift breeze to his right, against the wind, he turned, fleetingly watching Matt Giraud retreat back to the safety of his store, bolting the front door behind him, leaving the newly-elected sheriff alone in the street to handle the outlaws. Danny cursed Giraud's cowardice while wishing at the same time that he could join him.

When movement came once again from the bank, three figures making their way through the remnants of the door, Danny felt his joints lock in fear, the shock of witnessing the robbery--of being the man responsible for stopping it--overwhelming him. His hands fell stiffly to his sides, mouth agape, his eyes widening as he caught the outlaws escaping with Hope's riches.

Giraud had been right; it was the Kings, ready and armed to the teeth, standing not thirty feet from the sheriff, making their getaway. The Kings, one of the most successful and notorious outlaw gangs in the West, in _his_ town, with nothing but a quick glance at his badge and a well-placed bullet standing between life and death.

Goddamnit, where _was_ that blasted deputy of his??

***

Hope felt like a different town once they emerged from the bank, the sun brightening every strip of bare timber, the empty streets feeling hollow and dead; it was starkly different from the pregnant anticipation the dawn had awarded it, then its barren streets simply waiting for its people, waiting to be filled. David guessed he should have taken the empty streets as a blessing, as a chance for a perfect escape, but it kept him guarded. He didn't want to get over-confident and lead the Kings straight into an ambush.

With quick strides he led the way towards Kyle and the horses; he could already hear the familiar sounds of a small herd in gallop, their mounts gaining the necessary momentum to leave Hope at top speed, hit the ground running. He steeled himself, setting his jaw and honing in on his destination, forcing himself to let go of the cockiness he had expressed back in the bank. Joey kept his head down and his finger on the trigger, his mind still muddled by the overheard conversation the night before, cagily wondering where that vigilante posse would head next in search of their prize. But Neal, covering the Kings's rear, scanned the desolate streets, eyes sweeping around and behind them, focusing on any movement that could give away a second-story sniper, or a lookout waiting to execute the sign for a strike.

No threats bore down upon the Kings in Hope, no town ambush or a lone gunman seeking a name for himself by taking them down. There was but one figure visible in town, standing at the center of the street close to the bank's exterior walls, frozen like a statue. He was hardly an imposing man, average in every way Neal deemed imaginable, donning thick-rimmed spectacles glinting in the sun. But even their reflection could not hide the shock in the man's eyes, mouth hanging open, as he watched the Kings clean Hope's bank dry.

Neal didn't notice a holster on him, and he didn't reach for a weapon at all. He didn't appear to be a threat; he seemed barely able to comprehend the Kings's existence in Hope, much less be capable of stopping them. The rays of the morning sun caught on the tin star tacked to his vest, garnering the Dr.'s further attention; could this be the steadfast deputy Andy had warned them about?

Narrowing his eyes and keeping a firm grip on his revolver, Neal observed only fear and doubt in the other man. He saw none of the passionate loyalty of the deputy Andy had spoken of, the resolve that the deputy was willing to kill to protect this town or to die for it. This must be the opportunistic sheriff, he surmised; his fear was quite reminiscent of local marshals the Kings had encountered in the past, proving that it took more than a badge and a firearm to instill true courage. The sheriff was no threat to him, no danger; he'd be no hero if he shot the man down simply because he was there.

Disregarding the enlivened speech David had given the night before, cautioning the others that no man should get in their way that morning, Neal left the sheriff unharmed, backing away slowly and maintaining a keen eye on the frozen figure in case his fear was a clever disguise. He would never be foolish enough to turn his back to a lawman, especially not when carrying a freshly-looted sack full of the bank's valuable stock, but this encounter told him the sheriff of Hope was certainly not a man to fear. Neal doubted he would even scrounge up a posse to search for the outlaws; he'd probably be too busy counting every little blessing on his head that the infamous Dr. aimed a gun at him and didn't pull the trigger.

A quick, high-pitched whistle from David called Neal back to attention and back to the Kings's retreat, and he quickened his pace to catch up with the others. It marked the ending of the standoff that never was, and the only standoff in Neal's life where he allowed the other man to live.

***

"Hey! Sheriff--hey!"

Time had seemed to be as frozen as his limbs when Sheriff Gokey met the eyes of one of the infamous Kings, outlaws feared up and down the deserts and open plains, close enough to see the gunman's trigger finger itch as he sized Danny up, debating if he was even worth the value of the bullet he would leave behind.

When the voice called out from the safety of the dry goods store it startled Danny, jump-starting time once more. It had only been thirty seconds since he arrived on the scene, witnessing the only bank robbery in Hope's history and its culprits almost strut out of the town with their riches in tow, but the sun seemed much higher in the sky now, its rays much stronger, bearing down upon Danny to the point of discomfort. His arms and legs still had yet to thaw when Matt Giraud emerged from his hiding place, running over to Gokey with a look of confusion across his features.

"What are you doing?!" Giraud asked; Danny's mouth didn't even attempt to form words, still hanging open in shock from before. "Why'd you just let them go? You should have shot at them!"

It was only then that Danny slid his hand down the right side of his frame, noting with equal amounts of dread and relief that his holster was missing, abandoned in his office in his hurry. His mistake was probably the only reason his life had been spared.

But Giraud gave him no time to make excuses for his behavior. Giraud ran down Main Street, shouting at each storefront and windowframe, wresting the town from an extended sleep to the jarring news that the bank had been robbed. Heads began to peek out from doors and windows, townspeople rubbing the slumber from their eyes, confused about the sudden commotion and its cause--and waking to find their elected sheriff standing in the middle of its aftermath.

"Robbery! Robbery! Everyone up--the bank's been robbed!"

There was probably some noise ordinance or decency violation Gokey could have slapped onto Giraud for this spectacle, but his mind was still reeling from the robbery, barely noticing the growing gathering of townspeople streaming into the street, expressions of disbelief on their faces, their confusion gradually turning to outrage.

"Did you see it, sheriff?" one woman asked, clutching an infant to her chest frantically, as if the outlaws were still in town and would snatch her child from her arms at any moment.

"We can't catch them now," a young man in longjohns contributed, squinting in the sun, trying to pinpoint specks of movement in the distance and determine if they were Hope's errant outlaws. "Giraud's screamin' his head off it was the Kings; don't know if I want to try and catch them."

"Why didn't you stop them?!" cried another voice from the crowd, directed at the sheriff. "Why--why didn't you protect us?!"

The murmurs among the crowd grew louder, and more hostile: it was evident to the good people of Hope that their newly-elected sheriff, the hometown hero who had declared loudly and enthusiastically that he would always keep the best interests of the people in mind, was not as gallant as he claimed.

Faces that beamed at him only weeks before, fervent supporters of him during the campaign, suddenly turned cold towards him, accusing; asking for explanations, for answers. Danny Gokey had none.

He would have to do _something_ to regain their trust, or else his sheriff's badge wasn't the only thing at stake.

***

Andy watched with a grim satisfaction as the townspeople converged around their cowardly sheriff, all of Hope fully awake now with the dire news that theirs was a bank plundered by the infamous Kings. His feelings towards authority wavered from apathy, at best, to a grand distaste when reminded of the atrocities the Cook family were subjected to by a hell-bent lawman. He hadn't met the sheriff of Hope but from what he had gleaned in his observations of the town, the conversation involving his own deputy the most telling, Danny Gokey never troubled himself with thoughts of goodwill or justice, focusing instead on his own ambitions and impressing them upon the rest of the town.

It almost made Andy want to smile with indulgence; from the way the town was slowly turning against him, Danny Gokey looked like he was getting his just desserts.

He had come dangerously close to changing the course of the robbery, Andy's senses heightened and his nerves taut while standing lookout, providing the hidden backup the other Kings had come to depend upon over the years. Performing his research of the town carefully, he knew the daily schedule of the diligent deputy, Kris Allen's morning patrol so reliable one could set his pocketwatch to it. Andy planned to prevent a showdown as much as possible: he had his revolver at the ready, waiting for a shot at the approaching deputy before he ever reached the bank, before any of his partners could be in danger. Hidden, crouching in an alleyway, waiting to shoot an unsuspecting lawman...it wasn't a dignified ambush in the least, but Andy learned long ago beggars couldn't be choosers.

The only thing was, the moment never arrived. Much like the rest of the town, the deputy was nowhere to be found, and Andy found himself waiting for a phantom, his preparations to take the lawman down all for nothing. When the sheriff had arrived, it was clear to Andy he would pose no threat compared to the deputy: unarmed and overwhelmed, Danny Gokey wouldn't fare well against a child's toy pop gun, much less the skilled gunmen. He had the fleeting thought of doing the sheriff in anyway, ensuring there would be one less lawman on their trail to worry about; but if shooting an armed man from the safety of a well-hidden alleyway felt wrong, this was far worse, and Andy wouldn't even let a man like Gokey burden his conscience.

Whatever the unexpected bumps in the plan, the outcome was the same: the rest of the Kings were already off, fading into the distance to live and rob another day. He'd meet with them as soon as he could wrest himself away from the town, particularly those swell accommodations he booked at the Lambert Inn--he never imagined an oasis of comfort and luxury would exist in a boomtown in New Mexico, when he was used to straw mattresses and bare wooden walls, at best. He hadn't partaken in any of the saloon girls up for sale inside, preferring not to mix business with pleasure, but certainly raised an eyebrow when the owner of the inn, a tall man with dark, well-coiffed hair and flashy attire, asked if he would be interested in one of the more masculine residents of the Lambert Inn.

His thoughts drifted from the heist as he holstered his weapon and rose to his feet, putting on a bewildered expression best suited for an innocent traveler caught up in a town's frenzy over a sensational robbery. He had spent time worrying for nothing. Hope had ended up like any other town, their banks falling quickly under the bootheels of the Kings. Andy should have never thought otherwise.

***

"Mmmm...you're hogging the blanket." Kris buried his head further into the pillow, eyes still closed but mouth upturned into a sleepy, contented smile. The goosefeather pillow smelled like Adam; the entire room had that faint scent of sandalwood and musk, face powder and leather, and Kris couldn't get enough of it. His words were muffled into the fluffy pillow, feeling his lover's hot breath dance across the back of his neck, and suddenly he didn't mind at all if Adam monopolized the comforter.

The laugh was light and sleepy in his ear, tickling the flesh there and sending shivers of emotion down his spine. Adam's fingers soon joined that shiver, trailing along Kris's exposed shoulderblades, Adam's eyes intent on watching Kris's skin react to his touch. "It's mine," he said, and Kris couldn't tell if he was referring to the blanket, or to the deputy's own body. He enjoyed the outcome either way. "And I get to do what I want with it."

Those fingers swooped down over the curves of Kris's back, dipping low underneath the covers, and he hummed in satisfaction. "Well," he opened his eyes to see startling blue-gray eyes staring into his, heavy-lidded with sleep but clear, free of the dark rings of kohl and imported makeup Adam used when in the company of others, his fresh, freckled face rarely seen by anyone but Kris. He cherished that privilege, of knowing the real Adam Lambert inside and out. "What do you want to do with it?"

With a wicked grin on his face--a smile that reminded Kris of blooming desert flowers, of sweet bourbon in crystal glasses, of joy--Adam pulled the covers over both of their heads, shrouding them in the darkness the blanket provided, and leaned in to give him a smiling, breathless kiss. They stayed naked underneath the bedsheets for a time, reveling in the pleasure of each other's touch, four legs tangled in the blanket and each other. Kris knew every part of Adam by now without even the aid of light, his other senses enhanced as if he were struck blind: in the months they had been together he memorized the saloon owner's body by touch, the scent of him overwhelming Kris's senses, even the _taste_ of Adam was burned into his mind.

He felt a hand brush against his cheek, Adam's fingers cupping his chin, his eyes on him even in the darkness. "I'm glad you stayed last night," he whispered, leaning their foreheads together, breathing in the same air.

Kris wrapped his arms around Adam's waist, bringing him in closer, never wanting to let go and lose that connection. He didn't typically stay at Adam's through the night, preferring to leave during the height of the Lambert Inn's busy nightly hours, knowing just another shadow among many would pass by unnoticed. But the previous night's supper at the preacher's house had gone dismally, and Kris fled as soon as the opportunity arose to the inn, finding understanding and comfort in Adam's arms. When it had come time for him to depart as he always did, Kris nestled himself in closer to Adam's body in his bed, letting the crisp night air and the soft pull of slumber convince him not to move.

"Me too." Kris was sure it was late, the sun's rays peeking into Adam's room even through the blanket, casting a dark, intimate light over their features. He'd be terribly late on his morning routine, but hopefully the rest of the town would take no mind, the unseasonable chill of the morning an easy excuse for his tardiness, and not an entirely false one at that. "You would have done the same thing in my situation; they actually asked point-blank if getting Brooke into 'the family way' would speed up a proposal. Poor Brookie looked just about to keel over in her napkin."

He felt a peck land on the tip of his nose; it always amused Kris when Adam--strong-willed, defiant Adam, who challenged strangers in his heels, makeup and glitter to ever call him effeminate--dared to reveal his cute side. "Poor, poor Kristopher," he cooed, condescension stripped bare. "Forced by society to parade around town with a _woman_ on his arm, when all he wants to do is race back here and be _dominated_." Those hands of his swooped down again on Kris's body, reminding Kris of how they held him last night, how they gripped, slapped yielding, willing flesh. Kris whimpered.

"I would never be in your situation," Adam explained, satisfied by the low, hungry growl emanating from his lover's throat, knowing he was the cause of it. "I don't put on appearances, I don't need to. Everyone knows who I am, and if they don't like it--" he shrugged, understating his pride. With nearly everything about his identity going against him in the West, where fear and hatred ran as wide and numerous as the cattle drives, Kris knew how important it was to Adam to be exactly who he wanted to be, regardless of consequences. It was this quality that earned Kris's respect the moment he met him, and gradually, his love. "--They know the fastest way outta town."

The smile on Kris's face faded, Adam's indignance reminding him of the news he received the day before. "Gokey's tryin' to do that to you, isn't he." The threats of raids, the decency ordinances...Kris knew it was all leading up to a war between the Lambert Inn and the law, and he felt a deep loyalty to both parties involved.

They spoke about it before, the night Gokey had tried to slap fines on the inn for noise disturbances despite the county judge being in the establishment, getting thoroughly entertained by an ironically-named black woman who was anything but little. Adam had ranted and paced through his private rooms above the parlor while Kris watched with patient eyes, knowing more to both sides of this story than anyone else in the town ever could. Adam had even considered giving in to the sheriff and moving his operation to greener pastures in California, but he knew he would never leave Kris, and Kris would never leave Hope.

So he and the sheriff remained in their battle, with Kris in the middle, left free to take sides. "Well, he won't succeed, that's for damn sure," Adam grumbled, approaching the only topic able to sour his mood while Kris was lying in bed with him. The Lambert Inn brought too much business to Hope for the townspeople to ever decry purity over commerce. Gokey was trying to sway public opinion, but only time would tell if he could be successful. "My father built this place from dirt and sand; it means too much to me to lose it. Especially to someone like him."

He thought of Kris's own devastating loss to Gokey, remembering how the sheriff's election hit the deputy hard, his love and trust for Hope damaged, tarnished. He wouldn't let the man take both of them down. Pulling the smaller man closer he eased Kris into another kiss, letting the warmth of the other man's body against his fully distract him from thoughts of the wiley sheriff and their troubles. Adam had felt the attraction to the young deputy the moment he introduced himself at the Lambert Inn's doors, but it took much longer for him to realize Kris would be so much more to him than a pretty face--a surprising intellectual, a confidante; a lover that never failed to take his breath away. While it was a relationship they sadly had to keep behind closed doors, hiding their companionship from a town that accepted sexual eccentricities in their brothel owners but not in their deputies, Adam cherished the moments they did share, the stolen glances and touches in the inn as well as their lovemaking, and the happy, uninhibited moments like this, where they could kiss and laugh and just _be_.

A sharp rapping came from the bedroom door, and immediately their ministrations ceased, both men lying frozen underneath the bedsheets, barely breathing in case their presence was discovered. Adam gave Kris an apologetic look before he shouted a response. "What d'ya want?" he didn't bother to hide the irritation in his tone, nor did he think to get out of bed and give the interloper an audience. The door was locked and barred, for Adam's safety as well as his privacy; if this were some misguided, perpetually drunk client knocking at the wrong door, there would certainly be hell to pay.

But it was his emcee's voice that projected back to him, Blake's energy seeming more jittery and off-kilter than exuberant. "Just got word, there's been a robbery," he warned through the door. "Bank's been cleaned out, someone's screaming their head off down there that it was the Kings." A parting knock on the wood told Adam that Blake would press no further; like the old saying went, looked like Lambert had another man for breakfast. "Thought you should know. The whole town's lookin' to Gokey for answers--I almost feel bad for them."

When the sound of Blake's retreating steps faded into silence, Adam took a deep sigh, thankful the moment had passed quickly and without incident; Kris, lying next to him still as a corpse, did not take such a saving breath. His hands gripped the sheets, eyes staring out without seeing, his focus not on the couple's close call but on the actual content of the message.

His own concerns quickly turning to the reaction of his lover, Adam tilted Kris's chin with his thumb, their eyes meeting, though for once Kris's thoughts were not on the beauty of the blue-gray eyes staring back at him. Adam's eyes were his words, asking without ever taking a breath; but just as Kris could read the concern on Adam's features, silently asking if he was okay, Adam could decipher the shock and anxiety from Kris, his duty colliding with his desires.

"I have to go," Kris whispered abruptly, so sudden it caused the breath to catch in Adam's throat. With no further pomp the deputy pulled himself out of his lover's embrace and emerged from underneath the covers. The sun was streaming brightly through the high window of the inn, bypassing even the heavy damask curtains Adam had shipped from some country in Europe Kris had never even heard of. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the new, harsh levels of light in the room, and his small hesitation allowed a hand to wrap around his wrist.

"But--" Now that Adam had experienced waking up with Kris in his arms, feeling a warmth beside him that went farther than mere body temperature, he didn't want to let it go so suddenly. "Can't you--"

"Adam." His voice wasn't stern but there was authority behind it, a finality that told Adam the issue was no longer up for discussion, it never was. A glimmer of light shone into Adam's eye, sunlight catching off the polished metal star pinned with pride onto Kris's vest, laying lifelessly draped over a chair where it had been discarded the night before. It was all the answer Kris needed to give: Adam knew that the deputy's heart was split in two, that his affections were shared between his love for the saloon owner and his love for his job, for the town; for justice itself. Adam had to expect Kris would begrudgingly forsake one when the other was in such danger as it were now. He was still the law in this town, and he was needed on Main Street more than he was needed in that bedroom.

With a silent nod of understanding Adam relinquished his grip on Kris's wrist, the younger man taking one longing look at the warm bed and the warm body still inside it before gathering his clothes. He tried to hide from Adam how his hands shook at the prospect of what dangers he might find downstairs. He may have been the beloved deputy of Hope, but he had still never encountered so much as a lad stealing penny candy from the general store, much less ruthless bank robbers. He would have been a fool if he wasn't terrified.

"I should go, too," Adam decided, pulling himself out of bed and searching for clothes of his own. There wasn't much point to sleeping in if he were forced to sleep in alone. "See what happened. At the very least, it's worth it to watch Gokey's ego get knocked down a peg or two."

Kris breathed out a heavy sigh, sharing the sentiment but not admitting it aloud; that was, after all, supposed to be his boss they were talking about. "I've got to listen to some witnesses, take a look at the damage done to the bank..." His breath came out shaky, and this time there was no hiding it from Adam. They didn't often keep secrets from one another, each of them having their fill of lying when out in public, and Kris knew his emotions were always far from subtle. "...see if there are injuries."

The name Blake had uttered through the heavy wooden door was no light matter, and it struck fear into the hearts of all settlers in the open West, including Kris. Everyone had heard the stories of the bloody trail of plunder and destruction the Kings left in their wake, meek frontier towns terrorized by their wrath. Kris had spent the past two years as deputy hoping for his beloved town to be spared; now, he saw it had only been a matter of time before disaster struck. He prayed he only had to investigate shattered bank windows and empty safes, and not bloodied, broken bodies strewn across Main Street. The Kings were not known for being merciful.

He felt a presence behind him as he slipped on his vest, the tin star hanging heavily against his chest, and soon two strong, comforting arms were around him, a soothing and familiar voice in his ear. "It'll be alright," Adam murmured, a soft kiss against the shell of Kris's ear, and already the deputy could feel the tension draining from his bones as he leaned into the touch. He really couldn't fathom how he ever got by without him. "I promise."

"You _can't_ promise," the words escaped Kris's thoughts before he could curb them, his eyes closed, brow stitched into an uncertain furrow. He regretted his mumblings but Adam knew he was right; security and safety were never guarantees in the West, and even the most prudent, pious man could be cut down by an outlaw's bullet with no account to his virtue. He was trying to give support but it was an empty gesture, transparent; one that Kris could easily see through.

Adam changed his tactics, comforting Kris with practicalities, not platitudes. "If it really was them, they'd be long gone by now," he reasoned; if he were an outlaw, he'd never stick around long enough to see the aftermath of his thievery. "They're the Kings of bank robbing for a reason; I love you, Kris, but you're not going to be the lawman to stop them." He felt the chuckle pass through Kris's body, and instinctively his arms hugged him closer, Adam's palm spreading warmly above Kris's heart. "And once you get down there, I'm sure you can fix whatever damage Gokey's already done to the investigation. The town'll herald you a hero, rescuing them from their great sheriff's ineptitude."

He received a full laugh for his efforts, and Kris turned around in his arms to face Adam. "So get your adorable little ass down there," Adam instructed, his spirits lifting just by seeing the light dance in Kris's eyes once again. "Because the faster you get everything sorted out, the faster you can get back _here_."

"I'll try," was Kris's response, but the kiss that he quickly gave Adam--powerful but not desperate, a deliberate press of lips and the slightest flicker of a tongue against Adam's teeth--told the saloon owner that nothing short of a second bank robbery would keep Kris from his arms that night.

They returned to the task of finding their clothes from the previous night, and with a lingering parting kiss that threatened to send them both back to Adam's featherbed mattress, Kris left through Adam's private exit door, originally designed as a security measure but now proved to be useful for their secret meetings as well. It led out to a tiny fire staircase within the Lambert Inn and deposited Kris in the alleyway behind the building, emerging within the shadows to find a slender man in black with his back turned, watching the aftermath of the robbery unfold while keeping refuge behind the inn.

Kris raised an eyebrow, startled to find a soul in that alleyway, and tried to sneak away silently, but the back door had other things in mind and slammed shut with a loud _bang_ , causing the lone traveler to spin around on his heels, suddenly facing Kris.

Both men were shocked to silence at the other's presence; the man in black, whom Kris remembered faintly from the day before, stared with a wide gaze, his large eyes closely trained on Kris and the deputy's revolver at his hip. Kris realized he would have to be more careful when leaving Adam's room; the stranger didn't know Kris Allen any more than Kris knew him, simply assuming the poor traveler got caught in Hope during a bank robbery on his way to the West coast. But the next time it could have been someone who easily recognized Kris, clothes and hair disheveled and smelling of sex, and then whatever tenuous path he and Adam were following would quickly run out.

The deputy diffused the situation with a polite tip of his hat towards the stranger, and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding when the other man solemnly nodded once, their introductions unnecessary. Kris lit off briskly towards the center of town, far more important matters on his mind now than being caught sneaking out of his lover's back door by a stranger, leaving the man in black to his own thoughts and devices. All men had their secrets, Kris mused, but the morning the Kings robbed Hope's bank was not the day to reveal them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical note:** (Don't worry, I won't be doing these every chapter) The gunfight and arrest Ryan talks about in the first part of this chapter really happened and solidified the date for this story to be 1879. The famous gunfighter and dentist Doc Holliday had been in a saloon in [Las Vegas, New Mexico](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doc_Holliday#Tombstone.2C_Arizona_Territory) when a fight broke out between him and a veteran over one of the saloon girls. I don't know if there was a posse that came through town that arrested Holliday, but it fit in well with the other details of the story. Also, I just really, really love me some cowboy!Ryan Star. Hee. :D


	13. Chapter 13

_"The only good outlaw is a dead one." - Judge Frank Dale, about the Doolin Gang_

 

The animals knew it before the men; Kyle should have seen the forecast clearly from their temperaments, all but hurtling head-first into the oncoming storm. Still unaccustomed to the excitement and high-strung life the Kings had offered, Gangles was restless, stamping his hooves at shadows on the ground and listening to no one's orders, not even Kyle's. Sugarfoot, who was notoriously stubborn to begin with, was damn near impossible once the Kings dismounted and began to set up camp for the night; refusing to let Kyle near her, she stayed through the night with her saddle and bridle on, the powerful muscles in her legs ready at a moment's notice to ride like lightning at her master's request. Gilbert had still not recovered from the strange, moody habits of his master, Joey's quiet isolation disrupting more than just Kyle, and the horse was as confused as ever, keeping far away from the other horses, testing his own limits. And Sixx, startlingly calm and peaceful in contrast to the others, diligently stood in the direction from which they came, sharing in his master's solitude and waiting for their riding companion to return.

Kyle knew to follow the animals’ instincts more than his own; he had seen many times on the ranch the cattle scatter and groan before an oncoming storm, even the prairie dogs nesting in the ground aware enough to run from danger. Only humans lost this survival instinct.

Letting out a low whistle of approval, he watched as Neal procured a gold coin from the sack of the heist's spoils and bit it, the genuine precious metal unyielding against the sharpshooter's teeth. "You want it, kid?" Neal asked, noting the awestruck look in Kyle's eyes. He tossed the coin towards the younger man, Neal personally having no use for gold unless he planned to wear it. He had learned quickly that there was no need to bring any more attention to his presence in a town; an Irishman tattooed like an Indian and spending minted gold and silver coins left a vivid memory implanted in the minds of humble storekeeps. "You got it."

"Not bad," David mused, nodding, as he surveyed the morning's take, Hope's bank notes laid out in five neat stacks, divided equally among each member of the Kings. It was far more than David had first assumed the outlaws would find in the sleepy town. But Hope's gain was the outlaws' as well, and as he handed out each stack, with one remaining for Andy's return, the weight of the bills were heavy with satisfaction, and accomplishment. All in a day's job.

When he handed the share over to Joey, hunched over a pit of tumbleweeds he gathered for kindling, the sandy-haired outlaw seemed distracted, and jumped when David approached, the hand falling on Joey's shoulder startling him more than a pistol's shot. With a grim, calculating expression David presented Joey's share of the take, watching carefully as Joey's spirits lifted slightly at the sight of such a hefty reward, but quickly fell again as the outlaw returned to the thoughts swirling through his head.

Joey's mood seemed to worsen after the heist in Hope; he had been silent throughout their escape, on a journey where his adrenaline usually won out over common sense and no one could get him to shut up. David assumed whatever melancholy Joey had fallen into would dissipate once the heist was over, aware that his own mood swings worked similarly and it only took a common goal or a new job to distract him. But Joey Clement was not David Cook, and where David's history was commonly known among the Kings, Joey's was shrouded in mystery, his only admission being that he never wanted to step foot in Arizona again.

For over a year David had overlooked the large holes in Joey's past; he held his inquisitive thoughts at bay, allowing Joey his secrecy in exchange for his skill during heists and his loyalty to the Kings. But if this cloud of melancholy silence that had fallen upon him did not lift soon, it would surely affect his performance, and any slight misstep or distraction could mean doom for the entire gang. David respected Joey's privacy, and he would continue to do so, but he couldn't allow it to threaten the others, not while he was their leader. Something would have to give.

"She's a good ol' girl," Kyle interrupted David's thoughts with some observations of his own, his hands spattered with caked dirt from the horses. Caring for their horses was an important job within the Kings, both Kyle and David understood this, but no one ever said it was an easy one. "Stubborn as the desert's dry. Means she's got fire in her, but a little too much fire in those legs of hers--she won't let me near her saddle." Still, the young man approached with a smile, considering Sugarfoot's irritation a challenge, testing his calm nature and skill instead of an impassible obstacle. "She's always let me unseat her before, especially after a ride like that. Do you think--"

He never had the chance to complete his question, to wonder aloud if the horse had been injured on their escape from the heist and pushed Kyle away only to protect herself. David waved a dismissive hand at Kyle, his thoughts clearly on something else. "Just do your job, kid," he shot back sternly, brow knit together in a deep crease, darkening his features. "Isn't that why you're here? Why we're all here?"

Kyle jumped back, startled by the sudden snap of anger. David was commonly open to mood swings, ranging from the boisterous to the sullen and back again, but rarely did it reveal itself as anger, and never right after a successful heist. Kyle's face was etched with concern, and it was no longer merely over the horse. "I just wanted to know what you would do," he reasoned, treading carefully in both step and speech.

Taking a deep sigh, David calmed himself, his fingers fidgeting with the strands of hair at the back of his neck; his frustration wasn't with Kyle, and it certainly wasn't with his horse. The only one he should have been frustrated with was himself. "If she's not letting you near her," he began, the expert on Sugarfoot's temperament. "Wait a few hours, she'll get tired of that saddle. We've got quite a while here; I told Andy not to hurry back, let the heat die down first before moving on. Sugarfoot's a spitfire, but sometimes she just needs the uncomfortable reminder that, like it or not, she needs you."

Live and let live, and what you desire will come to you: this seemed to be the mantra of David Cook. Leaving Burleson and Kelly behind, knowing he was not yet the man she deserved, and allowing distance and time to strengthen their love. His philosophy was not based on inaction, but neutrality: one had to wait for the right time to strike, the right circumstances to take on a challenge. Every moment had its purpose, and in this moment, it meant the difference between a sharp horse's kick to a kneecap and a docile creature grateful for a human's aid.

But, looking past Kyle and towards the growing fire, the tumbleweeds soon catching and creating a smoky blaze, he also knew that in other circumstances, the moment to act may have already passed. Kyle followed his gaze, saw the troubled young man looking over his shoulder nervously, as if ghosts were to come out from the growing shadows and swallow him whole. Joey was so distracted by his fears his hair nearly caught on a spark along with the tumbleweeds; he jumped away quickly, matting his hair down with sweaty palms, a jittery shell of his usual self. Watching their fellow King in the dying rays of the sun, Kyle knew what had been frustrating David enough to snap at him.

"That doesn't always work, does it." When David turned his attentions back to Kyle he noted the serious expression on his face, and he knew they were no longer talking about the horse. "Sometimes you can't just wait for everything to sort itself out." Had he let things run their course, Kyle would have found his fate at the barrel end of David Cook's revolver, or with a mundane, empty future working his life away on a ranch. Had things run their course, David would have never tracked down the lawman who so viciously wronged his family and taken justice for himself; he would have never even tried. They would all be drifters then, having never met, never forged their close partnership; there would be no Kings at all.

David's mouth curved down into a thoughtful frown; the kid was certainly wiser than he looked. "People ain't horses, Kyle." The sentiment wasn't deep and it was far from profound, but Kyle understood it nonetheless.

That night, when Sugarfoot finally acquiesced and allowed Kyle to groom her, he saw through the dying embers of the fire the two figures approach one another while on Kyle's watch, Joey with a confession and David with an order. He couldn't hear every word from their conversation, the blustery winds deterring any chances of eavesdropping, but some words caught wings upon the air and flew to his ears, the most troubling of them from Joey's voice, murmuring words like "posse" and "personal," words Kyle vividly remembered spoken before by Ryan Star, relaying warnings of the road. 

The voice he did hear clearly was David's, projecting through the wind with the calm authority of a leader, yet the sympathy of a friend. There was a heavy sigh that filled the air, a hand massaging away the tension at his brow, and when he spoke his voice was filled with disappointment, but bitter acceptance. "You'll always have a place here," he offered to Joey, whose silhouette leaned heavily on his shotgun, his gaze to the ground because he couldn't look David in the eye. "But you don't have to--"

"I have to," Joey assured him, his voice desperate in a way Kyle had never heard before.

The next morning Joey was gone, all traces of his presence with the Kings erased with the distance, the wind sweeping over even the retreating hoofprints of Gilbert, wiping them away. No one said a word about his absence this time, no parting jokes or wagers as to when the outlaw might return. David's face was stoic and final, and it was clear he would give no information on what had transpired the night before, what Joey might have said to him. Kyle may have been curious by nature, but he wasn't an idiot; there were situations when even he knew to keep his mouth shut.

He turned to see Neal pouring a draught of whiskey from his flask into a mug of Kyle's coffee, the sharpshooter's eyes, as they always were, on the brightening horizon towards Hope. Kyle's thoughts briefly turned to Andy, and what he would have to say about Joey's disappearance once he returned to camp, before slicing off the top of the last can of Joey's beans in their supplies, his duties more important to the other Kings than his musings.

If he let his thoughts wander towards Joey and the reasons why he might have left--if the pull towards Mexico was finally too strong for him, if that vengeful vigilante posse had their sights set on the sandy-haired outlaw after all--then it gave Kyle hope that Joey might return, that they would all meet again. But the bitter cold morning air and the choked silence invading the camp, like the presence of death itself merely biding its time and waiting to strike, told Kyle that Joey Clement was gone for good, and the Kings would never be the same.

***

Kris had no idea how the Pinkerton detectives did it. The famous private investigators scoured the West, tracking down outlaws whose trails had long grown cold, protecting the frontier and never resting until they caught their man. Only three hours into the investigation of the Hope bank robbery, and Kris was ready to walk himself up to the Kings just so they can do him in and put an end to the monotony of this inquest.

"Just...one more time, ma'am," he drawled, laying his Arkansas accent thick in order to calm the woman, her witness statement already repeated twice, both times muddled with unintelligible hysterics over the accounts of the day. Kris stood diligently with pen and paper in hand, spearheading the investigation with solid evidence and what he hoped would be air-tight eyewitness accounts of the robbery. He didn't know why he was trying so hard to placate the crying woman; her statement was bound to be just the same as everyone else's, mentioning how they saw and heard not a thing on Main Street until Matt Giraud awoke the town like a lesser Paul Revere. The best account he received was from a boarder at the top floor of the Lambert Inn, who caught sight of four riders escaping out in the distance, merely retreating specks on the horizon, the outlaws bound to be even farther away by now. No one in town brought up the idea of gathering together a posse to track down what was unanimously acknowledged as the Kings gang; no one, not even Kris, had the courage or stupidity in them to come face to face with the baddest bank robbers in the West.

The only citizens with any information on the robbery were the banker, a timid man who came from the South, skinny, with pale skin that caused him to stay inside to avoid the harsh New Mexico sun; Giraud, who Kris planned to interview last, considering the amount of attention the storekeep coveted from the deputy; and Danny Gokey, the sheriff the people of Hope elected who stood by, frozen, while outlaws looted their bank. Kris didn't have much confidence that Gokey would even allow himself to be interviewed: as the sheriff he should have been heading the investigation as it was, and it would only further damage his pride and reputation to give a witness statement to his own deputy. With a disgruntled frown in Gokey's direction, Kris made his way to the scene of the crime; it didn't look like his sheriff would be very cooperative in this at all.

After confirming with the banker that it was indeed the Kings that robbed Hope's only bank, Kris decided to take a look at the establishment himself, the law-abiding man having never seen the aftermath of an official crime. The wooden bank was far from ransacked and looked as if it only needed the skills of a talented housekeeper: till boxes and file cabinets were left intact, the easy targets of amateur bank robbers overlooked, the experienced Kings knowing they were decoys. The only items disturbed in the bank were the front door--its wooden frame sturdy and functional but unable to withstand a heavy blow, its remains now lying in splinters across the floor--and the safe, its heavy iron door swinging harmlessly open, its purpose now obsolete.

The building looked nearly identical to how it had been the day before, but in the eyes of Hope, it would never be the same.

"And they left this." The banker's Carolinian accent came through thick when nervous and never was he more shaken than that day. "They--they said to give it to the newspapers, but I thought you'd want to take a look."

What the banker handed over caused Kris's heart to sink: the single playing card, glossy and directly from a new, untraceable pack of cards, was proof that Hope's bank had been hit only by the best. He didn't even need to turn it over to know a king's mirrored face would stare back at him, expressionless eyes asking Kris why he couldn't protect the town like he had sworn to do. Why he let his passion overpower his duty, in a warm, plush bed with his lover, but leaving the town in the incapable hands of Sheriff Gokey.

 _Gokey._ The deputy set his jaw at the thought of the sheriff, who had fled to his office once Kris arrived to calm the frazzled nerves of the crowd. Almost immediately when he arrived on the street, Kris had noticed Danny was in trouble: the fog of confusion was lifting from the townspeople, looking less for answers and more for someone to blame, a scapegoat. Gokey had been a sitting duck, frozen in the middle of Main Street, his glossy promises and smarmy, charming smile useless against an honest threat to the town. The pleading in his eyes was almost pitiful, Kris thought as he approached him, diffusing the tensions within the crowd, but any semblance of pity was thrown out with the bathwater when Gokey took the opportunity to duck back into the office, escaping the accusations of ineptitude flung at him from all sides. Silently Kris wished he didn't have that tin star pinned to his chest, or else he would hurl those very words right along with the rest of them.

After he collected the witness statements, taking the good part of the day in the unforgiving sun for the investigation as penance for not preventing it, Kris made his way towards the sheriff's office himself to gather both the evidence and his thoughts. Glumly he knew Gokey would want to see the information, most likely twisting it to his own ends and then claiming whatever glory there may be in closing the case; such was the life of a deputy, he thought, and mentally kicked himself for having ever lost to such a man. But a silver lining appeared in the gloomy storm cloud hovering over Kris's head: if Danny insisted on pouring through the evidence Kris gathered that day, it was quite possible Kris could duck out of the office early and head to Adam's ahead of schedule. If there were any day he could use Adam Lambert's special brand of comfort--a bourbon, a backrub, a warm seat by the fire and perhaps a little more--it was today.

"Finished taking the witness statements," he announced as he entered the sheriff's office, eyes cast down upon the stack of notes in his hands, overlooking the despondent look on the sheriff's face as Gokey ignored Kris's entrance. "Some were a little helpful...most were less than a little." He tossed the papers down onto Gokey's desk, a simple, sturdy wooden table Kris remembered far more fondly when Sheriff Daughtry sat behind it with authority. Kris frowned; Daughtry had been a man who would not have fled to the safety of this office had he owed explanations to his constituents.

Finally he caught sight of Danny at the desk, head in his hands, unresponsive to the world. "Gokey?" he asked with uncertainty, his compassion winning out over his resentment of the sheriff. "You feelin' alright?"

Kris had not been prepared for Danny's response; in hindsight, it should have been the first impression on Kris's mind when he asked Danny Gokey what was wrong. "They all hate me," he bemoaned, his voice shaky and unsure, the insecurities Danny usually held behind a heavy curtain of bravado now laid bare. It was difficult to remain arrogant when one was stripped of the very qualities that fueled one's conceit.

"Danny..." Kris tried to be sympathetic, his mouth quirking to one side of his face in a concerned frown, but he couldn't bring himself to go the extra mile and refute the sheriff's fears. Wouldn't want to lie to the poor man, he rationalized.

"They all saw me; the whole town." Danny looked up and his eyes held something worse than regret, more than the self-deprecation Kris felt over failing to protect the town. Brown eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses told the tale of fear running through Danny's mind, fear more of Hope's townspeople than of any bandit in the West. "They all know I just let those robbers go, I didn't do anything to stop them."

"There wasn't much you could do." And this, at the very least, Kris could say in truth: he had not been at the bank to witness the robbery, but if he had been there, he couldn't be sure how capable he would have been at stopping the band of outlaws, especially now that it was revealed they were the Kings. He could attest with all certainty, however, that he wouldn't have stood frozen while staring them down, alive only for the mercy of murderers and thieves, and he definitely would not have forgotten his gun. "It was the Kings, no one wants to face them, especially not alone. The town understands that--"

Gokey would hear none of it; he cradled his head in his hands again, in a tight grip that reminded Kris of bored farm hands back East who would crush unsellable, overripe melons in the fields with their bare hands. "They're gonna fire me," his notions started spiraling out of control, and soon even Kris couldn't speak any sense into Gokey's head. A man whose only firm quality was his charisma did not fare well when he finally lost it. "They're gonna sack me, completely, I just know it. I'll bet they're planning to string me up by the morning."

His voice grew more frantic by the moment. Kris had to fight not to roll his eyes at the sheriff's dramatics; it was clear Danny felt genuine fear over those possibilities. "I'm not gonna let them lynch you, Gokey," he said, once again unable to soothe Danny's ego with lies. There'd be no hanging in this town, not without fair trial and sentencing to go along with it, and Kris had vowed to protect every life in Hope, even Gokey's, from mob rule. Kris would never let the man die by the noose because an angry crowd called for it, but he wouldn't stop them if they called for his badge.

"They'll fire me for sure," he repeated, the fearful tension visible to Kris from the nervous shaking of his legs underneath the table, the wringing of his hands in a grip so tight Gokey's knuckles were white. "Especially since it was the Kings. Even the papers will say how useless I am..." His neurotic rants died down to a mutter, his mind so focused on his panic and his desperate attempt not to fall from Hope's grace.

Kris knew a lost cause when he saw one; there was no chance to console the sheriff, especially when Kris felt more obligated and less enthused to give it. He pulled his lips in between his teeth, refusing to take the bait and comment on Danny being useless. If one had nothing nice to say, one should stay the hell away from the conversation. "You might want to look over these for a while," Kris persuaded without outright instruction; he had recently learned how to make sure the sheriff got his work done without bruising the other man's ego. "I'll be over at the inn...interviewing more witnesses," he added hastily, knowing the older man was no fan of the festivities held at the Lambert Inn, even if Kris were going there for anything other than Adam.

Danny's attentions were still wholly insular; he did not even make his obligatory snort of displeasure at anyone mentioning the brothel he had been trying to destroy since getting into office. "I've got to win them all back," Danny uttered, eyes no longer fearful but determined, focused on the thoughts racing through his mind. "I've got to prove to them I'm not useless."

With a raised brow and a quickly bitten lip Kris backed out of the office, the evening air hitting him cold against his back when he opened the door, quite ready to leave the office and its ill-prepared proprietor behind. "You do that," he deadpanned, safely assured that Danny was far too in his own head to notice the sarcasm. Once the door was closed, the night greeted him, the extreme temperatures of the desert in autumn assaulting his senses. He wasted no time getting to the Lambert Inn, now truly in need of a stiff drink, a good conversation, and anything else Adam planned to give the deputy to ease the tensions of a troubled day.

***

With one last check on the supplies securely tied to Vera's saddle, Andy was ready to ride, reluctant to leave the luxuries of Hope behind him but eager to return to the other Kings, onto their next heist and next adventure. The cold night air turning New Mexico's autumn quickly into a bitter winter reminded him of the Tulsa winters of his youth, the weather harsh and unforgivable, but always surrendering eventually to the warm, mild breezes of spring. But it had been years since he experienced the territory's winters, and apart from brief reminiscences of childhood Andy hadn't missed it one bit.

From the booming sound that projected even outside the thick walls of the Lambert Inn, Andy could tell the festivities of the night had commenced, a flamboyant music revue with curvaceous singers and dancers with little regard to modesty. Even with the short amount of time he had spent in the town it was clear that the pleasure den never did anything half-heartedly. He wished he could join in the revelry but it simply wouldn't be the same; a night on the town alone was no night to enjoy at all.

Besides, he thought with a dirty grin as he unhooked Vera's bridle from the hitching post, he and Neal had some other ways to celebrate a successful heist, and every nerve in Andy's body ached with the anticipation of reaching camp and greeting him there.

"What's wrong, girl?" The darkness of Hope--with only the glowing embers of hearths peeking out of windows lighting Main Street in the presence of a new moon--caused Andy to only see shadows in front of him, but, placing a soothing hand on Vera's neck, he could instantly feel the horse was agitated by something.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a chill running through his body not from the cold; his hand slowly dropped down from his mount's neck, itching to grasp the hidden revolver at his saddle. It was probably just a stranger spooking Vera in the darkness, or a stray dog causing trouble, but in his line of work he could never be too sure. He just wished his eyes adjusted to the black night faster, would focus first on the shadows lingering in Hope rather than the pinpoints of light flickering like false stars in the foreground. He wouldn't pull a gun on an innocent citizen; it wasn't the last impression he wanted to leave this town, forever desperate not to raise suspicions about his true identity or where his loyalties lie.

Andy began to turn around, formulating a quick yet forgettable conversation starter on the fastest route to Cimarron from here, but he never had the chance to do either. With a loud _bang_ that he felt rip through his bones and flesh before he heard it, Andy stumbled to the side, abandoning Vera as shards of pain stabbed deep into his shoulder, spreading fast like brush fires and just as dangerous. His mind screamed at him from the pain, a heat rushing through his body as if he were on fire, burning from the inside out. Andy tried to react, tried to reach for his gun, but his right arm was unresponsive, nerves shattered from the shock. The hand slipped harmlessly from his saddle as the rest of his body faltered, his eyes rolled wildly to the back of his head, and he collapsed head-first in the dirt, never seeing the face of his assailant.


	14. Chapter 14

The sounds of a gunshot were muffled within the walls of the Lambert Inn by the brothel's nightly sensual festivities kicking into full swing. A trio of musicians who also doubled as the inn's bodyguards accompanied a lively, soulful tune by a young Mestiza, compensating in vocal power what she lacked in age. The band stirred up a crowd of joyfully rowdy customers, fueled by liquor, lust, and the seizure of life's little pleasures, the roar of voices joining in on the young singer's verses though very few could follow the words. The buzz of voices hummed from front parlor to back saloon and around again, thundering through the thick timbers of the walls and even in the private quarters of the inn's proprietor, the rooms currently unoccupied, their owner choosing to spend a night engulfed in the revelries his boisterous staff had to offer.

By the time the song concluded, the diminutive redhead punching the air in triumph and garnering a roar of approval from the audience, the deed not three hundred feet from the inn's walls had already been done, and there was nothing left for Deputy Kris Allen to deduce that anything had gone wrong.

"She's good," he observed, nursing a particularly potent gimlet, the bartender well aware of the events of the day and predicting the good lawman would need one. The youthful, bubbly exuberance he saw in the Mestiza, who shrieked and playfully batted away the lewd brassman's trombone slide in between songs, was far sunnier than the dispositions of most young girls in a brothel, who often reached these dens of ill-repute after years of abuse, neglect and torment, with nowhere else to turn.

Adam put on a sour look as he sipped a glass of red wine; the musicians knew how to stoke a crowd just as much as his young singer, but he watched them carefully, making sure they did not step out of line. "She's gonna _stay_ good," he assured, adamant ever since the pitiful orphaned girl arrived on his doorstep that she would stay at the inn as a ward, not one of the women on the Lambert Inn menu.

Expecting a laugh or quick retort--so commonplace when talking with Kris, Adam felt a foreign void when it didn't arrive on schedule--but receiving none, the innkeeper turned a concerned eye towards his companion. "Something wrong?" he asked; Adam's fingers itched to reach at the back of Kris's neck, massage away the tension he knew built up in his shoulders when he was distressed. But they were not within the safe haven of Adam's bedroom, away from the prying eyes of the town, and tales of such a gesture could spread like a pox through Hope by morning. Adam bit his lip against a scowl, his mind teetering between resenting having to hide his affections for Kris, and unceremoniously hauling him off to Adam's room so he could touch him whenever and however he pleased.

Finding the bottom of his murky glass of liquor fascinating, Kris shrugged glumly, reluctant to admit his mental exhaustion even to Adam. "It's Gokey," he said, his voice not masking his disappointment. It was trying alone on the deputy that he had to conduct the investigation of the robbery, but to also stoke the ego of the man who _should_ have been doing it--instead of muttering self-indulgent, paranoid ramblings at his desk, desperate for retribution--was far too much for one day.

Kris lifted his gaze and immediately the clear blue of Adam's eyes filled his vision, warm and understanding, inviting even when there was nothing to which to invite but another drink and a witty conversation in a noisy saloon. It was how they had first befriended each other, suppressing the instant attraction and reaching for something deeper, a companionship that grew from the intellectual to the sincere, until one day when a stolen kiss proved to them both it meant much more. Kris looked into the same piercing eyes he had encountered his first day in Hope and couldn't help but smile, his mood softening slightly, never able to stay upset in Adam's presence for too long. "He's acting kinda crazy back at the office. Think the robbery's really gotten to him."

Opening his mouth to speak as he watched Adam nod with concern, the deputy was interrupted before he could get out another word. "Sorry to break up the social call," the young Mestiza said unironically, in a brief intermission from the entertainment, bright red curls bouncing as she approached the pair. "But you're wanted at the front door."

Adam began to rise from his seat at the bar, ready to grumble over one routine customer complaint or another, but the singer stopped him. "Not you, no one wants _you_ ," she joked, and received a playful cuff and a tousling of her curls in return. But when she turned to Adam's companion, a flash of urgency crossed her face; her information was indeed dire. "They want to see the dep."

With a resolute nod to his companion, Kris made his way to the front of house, where he met the Lambert Inn's emcee, who for the second time that day seemed uncharacteristically nervous. "What's wrong?" Kris asked, almost dreading the answer.

"A patron just came in, said the sheriff's hauling someone off to the jail." It was strange for Blake to speak so succinctly, but Kris saw that unusual times for Hope meant unusual measures.

The deputy's eyes widened at the news, surprised by so many details in that one sentence his mind couldn't figure out where to begin. "Gokey?" he asked incredulously. "You mean...arrested... _Gokey_?"

"It's what I saw," spoke up the patron, tall and broad, Kris immediately recognizing the short haircut and green eyes of the ranch hand from the outskirts of town. Chris Richardson continued his account, his tone honest with no reasons for a false statement. "He was dragging some poor fella down the street towards the jail, grin on his face like he just struck gold."

"Thought you should be aware," Blake said from the side of his mouth; it was clear to Kris that the staff of the Lambert Inn had made their decision on who was the real law of this town.

He gave a nod of gratitude to Richardson, holding his hand out to the emcee and waiting for the revolver he checked with him when he entered the establishment. Kris had no idea what Gokey had gotten himself into; Lord knows he might need that gun now. "You said it was right outside the inn?" he asked, receiving a nod in return.

"Was just coming in...for the music," Richardson hastily added, tugging at two lengths of string tied at his wrist. There was no shame or secrecy in ranch hands visiting the pleasure den, though many tried to save their meager earnings instead of spending them on women and wine; but a nervous look that passed between this particular ranch hand and the inn's emcee indicated this visit wasn't about the wine and it certainly wasn't about the women. Kris gave no notice that he saw the subtle look, weaving in through the crowd once more to give a regrettable goodbye; he knew that look because he shared it with Adam on more than one occasion.

Reunited with his revolver, Kris made his way out of the Lambert Inn and had to stop himself from breaking out into a run for the sheriff's office, unsure of what he would find there. He was so focused on his destination he failed to notice the spotted trail of blood leading towards the building underfoot, the moonless night so dark it was indistinguishable from the streets of dust and stone.

***

"Time's up, Neal."

He had been so engrossed in the waiting, eyes so trained on the distant horizon, that he had not heard David approach, his boots shuffling against the gravel of the campsite. Neal tried to tell himself he knew it was David all along, he could decipher the other man's footsteps without any alarm. It hadn't been true, of course, and neither David nor himself would have believed that excuse.

The night cast no shadows along the desert floor, the absence of a moon dropping their world into darkness for hours now and for hours more to come; there was the chance he had gotten lost, Neal remarked to himself, but he also shot that reasoning down, knowing that even if Andy's internal compass did not bring him back to camp, his horse's surely would. He felt a pang of disappointment when the presence revealed itself to be David and not Andy, but Neal tried to push that feeling aside, knowing it was pointless. But that feeling in his gut did not subside far enough to get him to relinquish his position on guard, not even for their leader.

David tried to take Neal's silence as his assent, even gratitude for relieving him of guard duty, but even he couldn't fool himself; the defiance shimmering in Neal's eyes was piercing even in the darkness of a fireless camp. It was times like these David saw the fierce loyalty that made Neal his natural second in command; it was times like these he was glad the Dr. was on his side. "Your shift's over," he explained, hiking a thumb back in the direction of their bedrolls; Neal did not make a move to follow it. "You should get some rest."

"Thought the kid's supposed to relieve me," he noted, buying more time, wishing both David and the uneasy feeling in his gut would simply go away.

"Giving him a reprieve," replied David, glossing over the detail that he couldn't seem to rouse Kyle out of an exhausted sleep, the Californian's energy drained from his challenges with Sugarfoot and the gradual loss of adrenaline from the heist earlier that day. Kid was out like the moon, and since the nightly rotation of guard duty had just diminished permanently to three, David figured he could start his shift early.

The silence fell between the two, thicker than the night's darkness; Neal knew David would insist as much as David knew Neal would refuse. Andy had been late getting back to camp many times before, delaying for days because of a crisis in town, rendering him unable to escape without detection or notice. But Joey's departure left the rest of the men on edge, the undervalued outlaw among them leaving a hole in their daily routine both Neal and David hadn't been aware that he filled. Neal found distraction in his wait for Andy while David immersed himself in overprotecting his Kings, making sure as the leader he did not fail the rest like he failed Joey. Neither man planned to give up their comfort zones just as they refused to give up the ridge, to give up on one another.

David broke the tension with a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging in the darkness. "He left to protect us," he referred to Joey, their conversation brief but intense, and the most important talk David ever had with Joey in the time he had known him. "He didn't want us getting caught up in...whatever he's got himself caught up in."

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Neal, however, saw things a different way. "We would have helped him and he knew it," he said, shooting down Joey's perceived altruism. It wasn't that David had believed in the unselfish reasoning; it was that he had to. "He ran. He ran away because we wouldn't run with him."

The truth wasn't with either man, but somewhere in the middle, a self-surviving gray that spoke of neither chivalry or abandonment. When he had time to ruminate on their conversation that night, David decided that gray area _was_ very much like Joey.

"I'll sure miss his beans, though," David said with a smile, sealing their conversation, trying to get a rise out of the stoic sharpshooter. What would normally garner at least an amused chuckle from Neal, acknowledging David's charmingly overdone attempt at humor, was met with silence, and though he could not see his face through the darkness David had reason to believe the other man had already turned his head back towards the horizon, attempting to spy a horse and her rider.

Stirring the dirt up underneath his feet noisily to announce his steps, David approached Neal, a friendly pat on the back encouraging him to heed the outlaw's advice. "If Andy shows up on my watch," he offered, hoping a promise would get Neal to relent and finally get some rest. "I'll make sure he kicks you and tells you he's alive."

But David's words made the opposite effect, the sound of their partner's name in the air steeling Neal towards his cause, boots firmly planted in the New Mexico dirt, his body showing signs of his fatigue but also determined not to let that hinder him. "I'll make sure for myself, thanks," he declined, knowing it was more than the sensuous, unique way he and Andy greeted each other upon return to camp fueling his stubbornness.

"He's taken his time before," said David, remembering nights before Kyle, before even Joey, when Andy would be gone from camp for days with no word, making appearances within a town to cast off suspicion. It seemed to have been easier then, with Neal more manageable during Andy's many absences; but he didn't let himself dwell on it, lest he start calling those "the good old days," and they weren't all that good to begin with, anyway. "He said there was law in the town; he's probably caught up in something. Waiting for the right moment."

Neal knew David spoke common sense. But over the years the sharpshooter had learned not to take his instincts lightly, that often the prickling hairs on the back of your neck and the air of a room growing suddenly and stiflingly hot could be the difference between life and death, between falling to someone else's gun and felling someone to your own. "Something just doesn't feel right," he insisted, the first and only time he revealed these kinds of suspicions to another.

If David had felt a sense of dread like the one touching Neal's pressure points, pricking his skin like treacherous thorns in a rosebush, he kept them to himself; even to his second in command he would never reveal such doubt. "The only thing not right about this is Andy's sleeping on a feather mattress in the finest hotel in town right now," he said. The best way for Andy to diffuse suspicion was to remain where he was--which so happened to be an enviable room at the Lambert Inn. It made Neal hearken back to the last time he even slept in a bed, the last time he had shared a bed with Andy; it had been decidedly less luxurious than the hotel room Andy had described to the rest of them. "While _we_ are sharing sleeping quarters with the scorpions and prairie dogs."

He urged Neal once again to do just that, to sleep, and the physical exhaustion in the sharpshooter's limbs was breaking his resistance down. "He can take care of himself just fine, Neal; you know that." His hand fell upon Neal's shoulder, and even though he couldn't see the expression on his friend's face, David could tell he eked out a smile. "And if he gets here and finds out I let you drain yourself like this, I'm the one who's gonna get kicked."

With a sincere promise to notify him if the absent member of their gang returned, David sent Neal off for the last time, finally convincing him to relinquish his watch for much-needed rest. Neal laid down, the distant sounds of the desert in his head, of horses snorting and shifting in their upright sleep and of Kyle's deep, undisturbed slumber; but he couldn't bring himself to sleep, the emptiness of the bedroll next to him unsettling, keeping him alert for the sound of an approaching rider.

***

Crossing the distance between the Lambert Inn and the sheriff's office as fast as his legs could carry him without breaking out into a run, careful not to startle the townspeople pleasantly sleeping in their beds, Kris reached Gokey in record time, the deputy's revolver unholstered and at the ready for whatever might have awaited him inside the building. Kris only knew that Danny had hauled someone into the town's jail, and it most likely had something to do with the robbery from the previous morning; there was no other reason for Danny to arrest _anyone_ , nor had he ever arrested anyone before tonight.

It could be a hoax, Kris considered, one hand on the doorknob and the other on his gun; some poor patron of the Lambert Inn, already detested by Gokey's pseudo-pious standards, stumbling through the darkness after one too many whiskeys, the sheriff claiming public indecency. Or--Kris gripped the revolver tighter, having never needed to use it on another human being before--it could be worse than he imagined, an actual criminal or outlaw playing possum with Danny in order to gain the upper hand. Kris could have been walking into a desperate sheriff's publicity attempt, or right into a death trap.

When he pushed open the door, the heavy pine swinging inward with a bright crescent of lamp light and the distinctive smell of blood soon following it, Kris saw it was nothing he had imagined at all.

Hope's law enforcement team was by no means large, and their headquarters reflected their size: a small structure of deep-fired brick, it was one of the few buildings made of more than timber in the town, save for the Lambert Inn itself. Sturdy and reliable, it housed a one-room office with a small, cornered-off jail cell in the back, fitted with floor-to-ceiling iron bars Sheriff Daughtry had purchased from Pittsburgh, one of his last acts before fatigue and illness did him in. Never in Daughtry's tenure nor in Gokey's did Kris witness a man locked in that cell, with most altercations in Hope ending in a gruff, reluctant handshake or a petition for arbitration sent to the closest big city, Silver Springs, at least a five days' ride to the closest tort judge. No one had ever found reason for the cell: there were no fistfights here, no violence since the wild days of the inn, now long gone with the added security and enforcement Adam brought in when he inherited the land. Kris never even used it as a drunk tank, allowing men to sober up in private, disliking other towns' enjoyment of humiliating the individual into temperance.

That cell was occupied now, for the first time in two years: such a jarring difference from routine Kris had to stop himself from gasping. A man lay motionless on the floor within, hands bound behind his back and his face to the hard-packed ground, covered by a fringe of thick, dark hair. Even from the limited, flickering lamp light in the room and the black clothing the bound man wore, Kris could see clear as daylight the spreading, darkening patch of red on his shirt, blood dripping down his right forearm and pooling onto the floor. Only a faint groan from the stranger's lips indicated that he was still alive.

And right before Kris, seated at the sheriff's desk that used to belong to an honorable man of the law, was Danny Gokey, furiously writing the body of a telegram, his grin barely able to conceal his excitement.

"Danny," his words came tumbling out of his mouth, and Kris was lucky they were mere words and not his lunch. "What the fuck did you do??"

Without looking up from his work, Danny held up an admonishing finger, blind to the look of shock and outrage on Kris's face. "Watch your mouth, deputy," he warned, though his excitement was evident in his tone, unable to be dampered. "I don't know what kind of manners they taught you in _Arkansas_ , but here in Hope we do not take a liking to profanity."

Gritting his teeth against the backhanded insult--though Kris was not a native son to Hope, he always restrained himself from shouting that he loved the town more than Danny ever would--Kris stayed to task, the bleeding man in the cell of more import than Danny's condescension. "You _shot_ a man?" Though the question was rather self-explanatory, Kris's mind was still trying to keep up with the images his eyes were relaying to his brain, added to the concept that _Gokey_ had actually shot someone. This was a detail not brought to him by his informants.

The self-satisfied grin Danny shot Kris from the desk was just as startling as a real bullet. "I didn't arrest just _anyone,_ " he said. "I arrested one of the men responsible for the robbery this morning."

Kris could hardly believe what Danny was telling him; his jaw dropped open in spite of himself. "A King?" he asked, incredulous, and Danny nodded his head enthusiastically, returning to his telegram. "You caught a member of the Kings?"

"Everyone's gonna remember _this_ now," the sheriff said, more to himself than to Kris, his conceit and desire for the town's regained approval as subtle as a mine collapse. "Everyone's gonna see I'm a hero."

Ignoring his boss, Kris walked around the sheriff's desk to reach the jail cell, concerned that the groan of pain he had heard from Danny's prisoner was faint at first and growing weaker by the minute. Kneeling down at the stranger's level, he reached into the cell tentatively, careful not to disturb the thick rivulets of blood trailing their way down like cobwebs on the man's skin. He only wanted to brush away that fringe of hair covering the man's face, see if he could recognize him. But the moment his hand made contact with skin, the prisoner jerked away, gathering whatever energy and strength he had to escape the threat he perceived Kris to be. It wasn't much of a struggle: a desperate grunt of exertion and the sparking of survival instinct only caused the prisoner to shift his weight onto his uninjured side, able to move very little due to his bound hands, and he slumped back to the ground, defeated.

The movement had caused the hair to slip from the prisoner's face, however, and for the first time Kris was able to get a good look at Danny's victim. Large, expressive brown eyes stared back at him, even wider than usual with fear, mouth breathing in shallow, panicked breaths. Instantly Kris recognized him, couldn't do anything but recognize the man: it was the same look they shared in the alleyway earlier that day, when Kris emerged from his lover's bedroom to investigate the bank robbery. The realization dawned on the both of them that the morning's fateful meeting did nothing to prepare them for this evening's.

It was clear to Kris, the horror of Danny's actions reflecting in his eyes as the traveler lay dying before him, that the sheriff had shot and arrested the wrong man.

"He's not a bank robber, damnit," Kris's voice cracked at the guilt he felt over Danny's wrong assumption, even if Danny himself didn't feel it. "He's just some guy passing through town! Danny--"

"No, he's one of the Kings," Danny insisted, his light, dismissive tone angering Kris even further. "No one knows who he is, he just showed up in town one day. And he was planning on leaving in the middle of the night, very suspicious if you ask me."

Kris gritted his teeth because he didn't ask Danny, the sheriff's evidence towards his guilt was all speculation and misguided instinct. He could have shot _anyone_ and declared them a member of the Kings, and Kris was starting to believe that was his intention all along. Although an admission of their meeting earlier that day would have exonerated the traveler, Kris bit his lip, reluctant to reveal to Danny that he had been in the Lambert Inn that morning, missing his rounds while sleeping late in Adam Lambert's bed. But the pitiful situation the traveler was in tugged at the deputy's conscience; he couldn't just stand aside and let Gokey arrest a man for no reason, and he surely wasn't going to let him shoot him without consequences.

First things were first: Hope's first and only prisoner was getting paler by the minute, the shallow pool of blood underneath his prone body spreading as it grew, seeping into the grain of the wooden floor. The shine in his eyes was slowly fading, his gaze still upon Kris but less out of concentration and more for the lack of energy to look anywhere else. Kris hoped that wherever the poor soul's thoughts had taken him, it was a long way from here.

"Hey," he tried to catch the other man's attention, keep him alert and, if at all possible, still breathing. "Stay with me, man..." The prisoner backed away again, this time with much less force and fervor, and was rewarded with his immobile hands smacking against the jail's back wall; his face contorted in pain, baring teeth before he let out an anguished groan. It cruelly showed Kris that, whenever you think you cannot endure a pain any longer, the pain will remind you it is not done with _you_.

With the stranger still whimpering, Kris noticed through the bars that it was the rope bonds on his wrists, already stained with blood, digging into the skin there and holding his arms at an angle exacerbating the wound's damage that was the cause. He was already locked behind iron bars and barely alive, too weak to even move; there was no need for the additional precaution. "I'm untying his hands," he announced, already scanning the office for the rusty ring of keys to the cell.

Finally, Gokey gave Kris's actions some notice. "He's a dangerous criminal," he protested, rising from his seat and making a move towards the keys himself, to prevent Kris from opening the cell and loosing the presumed outlaw on the town. But Kris was younger, faster; he saw Danny reach for the keys, hung upon a nail along the office wall, and snatched them before the sheriff, gladly standing up to Danny's ire. "He needed to be restrained for the town's protection--"

"I," Kris repeated, emphasizing each word and letting the pauses in between them calm his temper. Getting angry with the sheriff would do no one any good at this stage. "Am untying. His hands." As he suspected, Danny backed down against the unrelenting fire in Kris's eyes, daring to challenge him, and returned to his telegram, the information he had to relay lifting his spirits once more.

"Sending this out to Santa Fe," Danny indicated the telegram on his desk, not noticing nor caring that Kris wouldn't listen. "Calling for a judge, and a few newspaper reporters. Everyone's gonna know I caught me one of the Kings."

Once he entered the cell, Kris could get a better look at the prisoner, seeing him before only once, and briefly at that--besides, the deputy had a little more on his mind that morning than the stranger in an alleyway. The wound was much worse than he had originally thought, the right shoulder of his shirt soaked in blood, the already black material looking as if the man had dunked his right flank into a watering trough. Kris untied the rope binding the other man's wrists, his arms falling limply to his sides once they were free, an uncontrollable sigh of relief the only gratitude he could give. Unwinding the kerchief at his neck, Kris moved to staunch the bleeding with some pressure. It was then that he noticed the actual entry point of Danny's bullet, the tiny tear in the man's shirt from the shot, was behind his shoulderblade, traced along the curve of the traveler's back, and not from his collarbone as Kris had expected.

The deputy's eyes widened with rage. His _back._

"You shot him in the _back_?!?"

He turned furious eyes towards Gokey, who, even when distracted by his own hubris, noted the dangerous tone in Kris's voice. Never had he seen the laid-back man so livid, not even when he had lost the sheriff's position. "He...he's dangerous," he repeated, trying to convince both his deputy and himself. "He could have shot first, couldn't let that happen--"

"Did you find a gun on him?"

The silence that greeted Kris's question was all the answer he needed, an answer he already surmised. Kris was no expert on the law but he knew well the codes of the West, the rules that gunfighters and thieves, even murderers lived by as a sign of respect for their adversaries, for the lives they may take along their dangerous journey. Spare women and children; give a man a fair fight by gun or by blade, and let him make peace with their God before sending the poor soul to Him. And one of the most stringent codes of the gunman, one that gathered no sympathy from the public eye once it was executed, was catching an unarmed man unaware and gunning him down with his back turned, robbing him of a chance to defend himself. Exemplified by the ugly death of Wild Bill Hickok some years ago, men considered it not to be justice, but murder, and Kris Allen felt no different.

"You shot an unarmed man _in the back_ ," Kris seethed through gritted teeth, wishing of all might that Gokey were a more competent man so Kris could challenge him without feeling equally unjustified. He stared the sheriff down, unable to control the vitriol in his eyes for a man who was supposed to be his superior, someone he held loyalty towards, took orders from. The sheriff was supposed to be a man to be _respected_ , and more than the crime of shooting an innocent man down, Kris resented Gokey for destroying that in Hope in the course of one day.

Unimpressed, Danny stared right back, mouth quirking downwards into a contemplative frown. "I don't think I like your tone," he said flippantly, causing black bile to rise in Kris's gut even further. "When the papers come to write about this, I don't think I'm going to award you any credit in the arrest."

Danny Gokey may have been a coward but he was no idiot; when it came to self-preservation almost no one in the entire town could rival his skill. He observed Kris's square jaw clench, the hand at Kris's side balling into a fist, and knew more than a flippant explanation was in order. "You didn't see how they _looked_ at me today." His voice went low, the tone desperate; it was the tone of a man who believed he had no choice but to do what he had done. "I'm their sheriff, I'm supposed to _protect_ them and I failed." For the first time since his election, Kris saw something akin to duty in Danny's eyes, something he felt himself when he heard of the bank robbery while in Adam's bed. He never thought Gokey had it in him, but perhaps the deputy had underestimated his sense of loyalty...or his need for adoration. "I had to do _something_ ; I had to win them back."

"So you go out and you shoot a man in the back?"

This time it was Danny's turn to grit his teeth; he was the law in this town, he didn't have to explain his actions, especially to his subordinate. "I apprehended a dangerous outlaw," he stressed. "He's one of the Kings, I know he is. He's going to trial, and everyone's going to know who brought him to justice."

But with no evidence and Kris's own eyes witnessing the stranger far away from the action of the bank robbery that morning, the deputy's was a hard mind to convince. Both lawmen were stubborn in their own ways, Kris strictly adhering to his ideals on honor and justice and Danny holding faith in himself and his actions, regardless of the casualties. But while the two men had their standoff, a man lay bleeding in their jail cell, the product of Gokey's pride and the catalyst to Kris's rage. Kris had his entire life to resent Gokey and bicker about ideals; here, they had a man's life at stake.

"He's going to die if we don't help him," he diverted the conversation away from Gokey's egotism, with little avail. "Then you won't have need for your judge or your newspaper reporters."

Gokey looked less than motivated to save the young man's life, as Kris once again dropped to his knees in the cell, monitoring their prisoner's status. "Maybe I should call for an undertaker instead, then," he said dispassionately, eyeing the body of his telegram as if it were the word of God.

Kris's hands clenched until his knuckles were white, glad his face was turned away from Danny lest his anger over the sheriff's actions reveal itself outright. In a moment of emotion and a lapse in good judgment, Kris snapped back at him, his eyes on the bullet wound Danny inflicted, watching carefully as the blood flow slowed, marking the battered body's process of healing...or indicating the man was running out of blood to shed.

"He needs a _doctor_ ," he insisted, rousing a pained whimper from the traveler that sounded far worse than before, stemming from a pain deeper than the flesh wound.

"With what money?" Danny countered, one of the few times in their professional relationship Kris ever remembered the sheriff being effectively clever. "The town can't afford to treat a prisoner. If you remember, our bank was robbed this morning."

"I'm not letting any man die in my jail, Gokey."

From the silence behind him Kris knew he chose the wrong words; he tried to force his mind to regret them but he couldn't consequently force himself to accept a lie. "Your jail." After a moment Danny spoke, the silence a shield for which to hide his insecurities behind. "I see how it is."

"Danny--" Kris tried to explain but the sheriff cut him off; he had far more important things to do than handle a deputy looking to usurp his position.

"I'm going over to the telegraph station," Danny announced, snatching up his telegram draft from the desk, mustering what little authority he had and projecting it in his tone. "I'm waking up McIntyre so he can send this telegram right away via morse code, make sure the news gets to Santa Fe by dawn." It was a four days' trip from the territory's capital to their little boomtown, and Danny wanted to make sure that no time was wasted in informing the public of his accomplishment. Calling for a judge from Santa Fe showed that Danny wanted to make whatever trial he dreamed up into a full spectacle: only a judge from the capital could sentence a man to hang.

He looked down through his thick-rimmed spectacles at Kris, kneeling on the floor next to the man Danny brought close to death, the deputy feeling like a defiant, disciplined child and the sheriff his punisher. "So in the meantime, you can take care of your jail," he spat the words back at Kris, any semblance of professional friendship between the two lost that night. "And make sure my prisoner doesn't die."

Retrieving his hat and making sure to have his gun on him this time, Gokey left the sheriff's office, his optimistic mood soured, to be rekindled only by an enthusiastic telegram reply from Santa Fe saying they'd send as many reporters they could fit onto a stagecoach to tell the tale of the man who captured a King.

"Good riddance," Kris muttered under his breath once the door was closed, hoping the reply from the capital would be short, tart, and wholeheartedly mocking Danny's claim to have bagged himself a member of the notorious outlaw team. The more hot air deflated from the windbag of Danny's ego, the better.

But there were more important matters here than Kris's resentment and Danny's ego. The stranger was still silently suffering in the jail cell, curling his body away from Kris's kneeling frame, the survival instinct dormant in most people activated by his injuries. The wound bled slowly now, a testament to the self-healing powers of the body, but Kris knew the bullet was still lodged inside the other man's shoulder and would remain there until removed, infesting and poisoning the body with melted metal. There was no doctor in Hope; the closest physician would be hours away, and though Danny's refusal to call for one was heartless, it was also true: there would be no way to pay for one's services, and Kris didn't have enough in his savings to save a man's life.

The only other choice was to do it himself, with whatever crude instruments and procedures he could find. Any man spending time on the open plain alone knew how to care for simple wounds, lest they fall victim to infection and die from a papercut without medical attention. He had learned to fish bullets out of deer carcasses--his recurring role when in hunting parties in Arkansas and he was the only member returning empty-handed--but those subjects were usually dead by the time he reached them, far from concerned about the sanitary conditions of the procedure nor the excruciating pain involved in removing a bullet. Things were going to get worse for this poor man before they would get better.

"You'll be alright," he tried to soothe the stranger's addled nerves with a calming Southern drawl; he'd have to convince him to allow Kris to get close to him, and fast. Tentatively reaching out, he touched the wounded man's right arm, and thankfully, he did not flinch or fight to get away. Either the stranger believed his words, desperate to find a friend somewhere before finding himself in a hangman's noose, or he simply ran out of energy to fight back. Either way, Kris thought as he examined the wound through the hole in the man's shirt, a steel bullet lodged there, soaked in blood and mocking them both...it was going to be a long night.

The traveler's eyes searched the room wildly before falling upon Kris once more, the gears cleverly working in his mind to determine whether the deputy was a friend or foe. He had encountered a lawman in Hope already, and that tin star shot him in the back in the dead of night; not the most encouraging of goodbyes. Kris put a hand to his own chest, hoping his smile was genuine enough to mask the foreshadowing of a hellish night for the both of them. "I'm Kris," he introduced himself; though the manners his mother taught him required the deputy to shake a man's hand when they met, he figured even his Mama would understand these extenuating circumstances. "I'm one of the good guys."


	15. Chapter 15

_"People thought me bad before, but if ever I should get free, I'll let them know what bad means."-- Billy the Kid_

 

When Kyle had first met the Kings, when Neal revealed he would rather shoot him than trust him, Kyle's healthy fear was mixed with a sense of awe that a classically educated observer might call hero worship. The Dr. had been imposing the first morning, watching the plains with a cigarette burning slowly between scowling lips, the revolver with which he never missed his target always present at his side. But this morning outside of Hope Kyle saw something different in the man, his lone silhouette the only indication that humankind had ever visited the barren landscape. Neal didn't look intimidating; Neal looked lonely.

"I slept like the _dead_ last night," Kyle announced, approaching the ridge and its lone guard, Neal sometimes pacing and cursing the passing hours underneath his breath, other times still and silent, as if the slightest move might disrupt the vast, unchanging horizon. It was unwittingly cruel for Kyle to mention his sound sleep, stretching his arms over his head to rouse the limbs back into alertness, especially when Neal had spent the night restlessly, feigning slumber while listening for the sound of horse's hooves or a familiar voice. David should have known better than to send Neal away from watchguard duty and expect him to actually sleep.

"Nice for you," was the mumbled reply, Neal concluding it would take too much energy to get frustrated with Kyle's attempts to make small talk. Kyle, keenly inquisitive and observant in all the ways that did not show him Neal's desire to be alone, interpreted this as his indication to go on.

"Never really slept in on the ranch," he recalled, receiving a shock this morning when he awoke to David making breakfast. He'd have to remember the next time David claimed his corncakes were outstanding, not to take his word for it. "My brother and I were always up before dawn, bringing in the cows for milking, keeping track of the herd. I always--"

"Kyle," Neal interrupted, shaking his head. He didn't attempt to mask the irritation in his voice but there was also a hint of a smile on his face, wondering with amusement where the former ranch hand's anecdote would have led. If he had gotten Neal to crack a smile, just for a moment, Kyle believed it was worth it. "Not another one of your stories, kid."

Despite protesting that it was a good one--which it wasn't, Kyle realized that by now, any tales he could spin about his childhood on the ranch, now that he experienced true adventure, were as bland and unappealing as David's corncakes--Kyle kept his mouth shut, distracting it with a hearty bite of his breakfast. Appetizing or not, it was better than an empty stomach. "You're missing out," he said between chews.

Neal surrendered himself to indulging him, sensing Kyle wasn't going to relent until they had a proper conversation. "Can't believe you're actually eating that," he commented, learning years before that a griddle pan in David's hands was almost as dangerous as a revolver. "Just because his last name's Cook, doesn't mean he actually _can._ "

Shrugging and smiling through a mouthful of food, Kyle tossed the rest of the cake to a desert mouse, scurrying across the landscape in search of its own breakfast. It sniffed tentatively at the morsel, climbing up on its hind legs to investigate, and then decided to leave the corncake untouched. Fine cuisine, it was not. "Better than nothing," he said, a rationale every hungry highwayman adopted during lean months on the open plain. Though the Kings had money to burn, their supplies were running low, and would only be replenished after Andy's return; another reason to watch for an approaching rider.

Kyle watched as a strong gust of wind scattered the dust along the ridge, peppering the untouched corncake with red flecks of clay and sending the little desert mouse retreating back to its home. It blew in cold from the north, a crisp, startling feeling that reminded Kyle more of the coastal winds of California than any breeze they encountered in the desert. "Nice breeze," he said.

Neal narrowed his eyes against the coming wind, tasting the traces of its arctic origin on his lips. "It means a storm's coming." His voice grew serious as he stared out into the distance, the absent member of their gang not the only thing on his mind. "We should probably move everything below this ridge for cover by nightfall if we want to stay anywhere close to dry."

Though the wind kicked up the flyaway strands of Kyle's hair, sending them blowing annoyingly into his face, he searched the skies along with Neal and saw no storm clouds for miles, an unyielding, blue sky the Kings's constant New Mexican companion. Maybe the sleeplessness was getting to Neal. "How do you figure? There isn't a cloud in the sky. I mean, I'm not used to the fall out here, but back in California--"

But this wasn't California, Neal wanted to remind him, not the land of lush fields and fruit groves; not the last stop on any railroad line in the country, forced to cease their endless routes of iron and steel in the face of a vast ocean. They were in the open West--a few hundred miles and a few hundred banks between that ridge and the city he once tried to call home, but Neal's type of territory, all the same. "The winds come from the Northwest; they're only gusts now but they're picking up speed. There's cold promise in that wind--snow, too, probably not this far south so we'll just be pelted with rain." He took a deep breath; even recalling the lessons he learned from his adoptive Creek tribe was a hefty exertion. It had been so long since he and Andy were in Tulsa. "Something about nature today is restless; I can feel it in the air."

"How you do know all that?"

Neal smiled, tearing his eyes away from the landscape to look down at his inked knuckles, his hands. He couldn't remember his real parents anymore, the memories of a young boy pushed aside in a mind fit for marksmanship and bank robberies, but there were some things about his upbringing that he could never forget.

_The Tulsa marketplace was crowded with people, every one of them trying to ignore him. Carpetbaggers from the East, fresh from the railroad station and looking to make their fortune off the backs of displaced Indians, hiked their noses up into the air at the sight of the orphan, an Irishman no less, whose reddish-blond hair and freckled complexion reminded them of the urchins they saw on every streetcorner in Boston or New York. The locals of Tulsa already knew where the young man stood in their strict hierarchy: a town built on tough, immigrant backs and rugged individualism, they cared less about the shade of his skin and more about the inked colors adorning it. A symbol of pride among the Creek Indians was a scarlet letter to others, the prejudices of an entire country thrust upon him for the people who took him in as a boy, the company he kept._

_And the men of the tribe were no better, though their ire was less public than the townspeople: with the tensions rising between the peoples forced off their native lands and the white settlers claiming acres of the Indian Territory as well, the Creek men's resentment tended to land on their foster son. Although the tribe provided shelter, food, and the training to make him a fearsome warrior in either world, he was constantly reminded that he would never be a full Creek, always an outsider surviving on their benevolence. It was only a matter of time before they, too, decided Neal Tiemann was not one of them._

_He wasn't buying but he wasn't begging, either; technically the stallmasters at the marketplace had no reason to eject him, but he knew they'd make one up eventually. On his way to find some less judgmental location to loiter, he felt the gaze of someone not staring at him with disgust or superiority, but fascination. Neal turned to meet large, round eyes, brown like the dark Tulsa soil but speckled with flecks of green; a fertile field on the cusp of sprouting its bounty. He was slightly younger than Neal, his tailored suit making him appear more mature, on even keel with men three times his age. He had an aquiline nose and a tight line of lips softly parted in awe, taking in Neal as much as Neal was assessing him. He fit himself into the shadows of the marketplace, finding comfort in being overlooked where Neal only held a resentful acceptance of the fact._

_No one else seemed to even notice Andy Skib, but Neal couldn't take his eyes off him._

"The Creek are some superstitious sons of bitches," Neal replied, a whimsical smile on his face. Never had he thought he would get nostalgic for Tulsa. "But they know their storm watching."

Looking out towards the empty horizon, Kyle still couldn't understand how Neal divined a desert storm from a gust of wind, but stranger things _had_ happened. A new thought came to him with this acceptance; perhaps he was the only one who couldn't sense the oncoming storm. "Maybe that's why Andy's taking so long," he said, more to himself than his companion on the ridge, though Neal had certainly heard it. "Maybe he's waiting out the storm."

The silence that followed Kyle's suggestion was so deliberate and resentful it was near violent; it filled the space between them, flowed out over the ridge and into the dark crevices of the desert mouse's hole. He couldn't imagine that David didn't feel it all the way back at the camp, that a chill didn't go down the outlaw's spine without knowing the reason why. Whatever smile lingered on Neal's lips vanished, his face as cold as the storm he predicted was inevitable.

Kyle's mouth drooped into a nervous frown, his eyes both sympathetic and hesitant. "...Or maybe not?"

"He's not," Neal immediately responded, a little too quickly and too resolute for his liking. The suddenness of his retort startled Kyle, though he should have realized such a topic would have enlivened Neal. "He wouldn't..." Neal stopped his own words, letting his more rational side--a side to himself he didn't know he possessed until David coaxed it out of him--calm his emotions. He knew the true answer was that Andy wouldn't let the others worry for such a prolonged time over him for nothing, wouldn't let _Neal_ wait endlessly for him with no indication of delay or return. But all he managed to explain to Kyle was "Andy ain't gonna risk it just for a little rain."

Running a hand through his hair, Neal took a deep sigh, wondering if his emotions were getting the best of him in more ways than one. Had David been the one delayed in Hope, Neal wouldn't have been waiting on that ridge, and he would have probably had a decent breakfast on top of that. "Dave's probably right," he admitted under his breath. "There's probably nothing wrong, nothing out of the usual. I'm just being an idiot about it."

There wasn't much else for Kyle _to_ say, really; Neal didn't need a placater but he didn't need a doomsayer, either. He needed a friend. "He could be fine," he said, choosing his words carefully. He hoped his partnership with Neal was solid enough that Neal would no longer be provoked to shoot him, but when it came to his emotions over Andy, all bets were off. "Or, maybe he's not. But we shouldn't jump to any conclusions; we shouldn't think of the worst until we know otherwise, and we won't know what happened until Andy himself comes up and tells us."

He paused, knowing he owed more than an explanation; there was an apology deserved to Neal as well, for doing exactly what he just cautioned the Kings should not. "I'm sorry I suggested he might wait out the storm." Andy was cautious when returning to the Kings after a heist but he wasn't lazy or selfish; he wouldn't have left them waiting--wouldn't have left Neal waiting--over a storm Kyle still wasn't fully convinced would come. "He's not leaving there till he figures it's safe, but he's not staying there any longer than he has to." A pang of sympathy surged through Kyle as he thought of the connection between Andy and Neal, the history they shared, the intimate touches he had seen. He knew Andy wouldn't waste one unnecessary second away from Neal.

"Kid," Neal said after a contemplative silence, biting his lip to keep the impressed smile from spreading across his face but failing, resulting in an unadulterated, guilty grin. "You are some piece of work."

It was the biggest compliment Neal had paid to the younger man since his first heist in Fox Canyon, when he proved to them all that he had the skill and the bravery to join them. Those months ago, Kyle felt accepted as a partner in crime by the fearsome outlaw, something he as a wide-eyed, idealistic young greenhorn would have never thought possible. Now, even more incredulously, this felt to Kyle like Neal accepted him as a friend. "You know," he observed, the initial tension he felt when confronting Neal being lifted for the better. "You're not really that scary, after all."

The amused smile grew into a laugh; Neal understood full well how the public forged their impressions of him, the simmering disgust he encountered in his youth transformed to an open fear from civilians and a wary respect from fellow gunfighters. He just never knew how he had deserved it. "Am I supposed to be?"

***

Andy had never been in so much excruciating, skin-shredding pain in all his life.

He had earned his lumps during the Kings's years on the open plain; no man who made his living on the fastest gun, the easiest payout, ever survived for as long as he had without scars. The one time a spooked Vera had bucked Andy off her back, sending him into a ravine and earning him a broken leg; the misguided return to camp by way of a cactus patch that he never heard the end of. And the wallop he took from a duo of ambushing bounty hunters who caught him off-guard, though Neal had thankfully shot one dead, and the other received a far worse, rage-fueled, fatal beating in return from Andy before the night was through. He was not ignorant of the physical hazards of his career path and always expected there to be more troubles along their way; though being impetuous, young, and cocky, Andy admittedly always thought that time would come much farther down the road than now.

But this was a pain he had never experienced before nor had he ever expected to; his right arm felt like it was on fire, burning from a furnace built within. The bullet wound at his back spread the pain like spilled black ink throughout his body, waves of rolling, dark sensation that made it difficult to breathe. He drifted in and out of consciousness the entire night, his body shifting between shutting down from the loss of blood and shocking him awake from the pain.

Someone had once told Andy that a burst of self-surviving adrenaline surged through your body when you were shot, that after a while one's brain turned a blind eye to the pain, deadening the senses to become numb. He waited for the numbness, for the pain to become monotonous and so familiar it barely registered, but it never came. Andy wished he could remember who told him that so he could shoot him.

The only thing that kept him sane through the night--and consequently the only thing that probably kept him alive that night--was the kindly deputy of Hope, administering the common, rudimentary medical knowledge of every frontiersman, making sure he didn't end up with a dead body in his jail by the morning. Stating his name was Kris with a friendly smile and a tip of his hat, the deputy removed the bullet wedged between Andy's shoulderblades with a sharp Bowie knife and prayer, apologizing with every movement, every incision. If Andy could have gathered the energy to scream during the backalley surgery he would have, but it took all his will not to black out.

Insisting under his breath that it would be too much of a victory for the sheriff to allow Andy to die, Kris took care of his health, providing equal amounts of strong, antiseptic liquor to Andy's wound and Andy's stomach, the only thing the outlaw found helped to kill the pain. Kris insisted on water as well, claiming that Andy couldn't replace all the blood he lost just with gin, and what didn't go into the outlaw's mouth to drink was used to clean up the floor of the jail cell, Andy still too weak to sit up and move away from the pool of his own lifeblood, its metallic scent pungent and sour. The bandages he used to dress the wound were old, albeit clean, rags; the bedrest Andy received was upon cold, hard-packed dirt.

It was more hospitality from a lawman than Andy had ever expected to get; he reminded himself, if he got out of Hope alive that Kris Allen would change his perspective on the cruelty of men of the law, and possibly owe him a gift basket in return.

Though drifting in and out of consciousness the entire night, Andy's mind was constantly on the seriousness of his dilemma, that he was wounded--dying, almost, or at least it sure felt that way--and lying in a jail cell, accused of being a member of the Kings. Even if there had been no evidence in Hope that Andy was an outlaw--he was careful, damn cautious not to leave traces of his real self behind, as he was in every town they hit--there was always the possibility the truth would come out, and one way or the other, by bullet or by hangman's noose, he'd die.

He wished above all else that Neal were there with him, a selfish, desperate desire just to feel the other man's arms around him, rest his heavy, wound-weary head on his shoulder, hear Neal whisper to him that it would all be okay. Then, at the least, he could believe there was a happy ending to this bleak situation, or that even if there seemed no escape from death in sight, that Andy would die right beside him, clutching hands, experiencing the last breath expelled from his body. He couldn't bear to think of Neal surviving without him; he couldn't bear to think of surviving without Neal.

The rising sun streamed in through the single grimy window of the sheriff's office and underneath the wooden door, pathways of light to the outside world that never reached the iron bars of Andy's prison. He made it through the night; only time could tell if he could survive the day.

***

Kris wiped his brow with a sleeve already stained with sweat--his--and blood--decidedly someone else's. It was a long, brutal night, possibly the worst the deputy had ever experienced in his young life, though for all the trouble he found, it couldn't have been worse than his prisoner. There were moments when the night was as its darkest, when the only reason Kris knew the poor traveler was still alive was from faint mumblings during his weary fever-dreams, the mind continuing to race long after the body reached the limit of what it could endure. He removed the bullet to stop infection, gave him gin to numb the pain, but with all the nursing and worrying Kris could do, the heaviest of his duties was to wait, silent and patient in the sheriff's office, to ensure Hope's prisoner lived through the night.

By dawn he realized that he was likely not the only one Chris Richardson told of a midnight arrest by the sheriff: the people of Hope were converging upon the small building, hovering around its windows like hives of bees, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man. Kris soon doubted it was the kindly ranch hand that tipped off the town and suspected his boss himself when questions started being thrown in through the grimy glass, young boys asking with wonder if Gokey really brought down a King, and women fearfully fretting that the arrest could cause the outlaw gang to have unfinished business with their town. Turning a wounded man's misery into a public spectacle before judge and jury were even requested for a trial...yes, that _did_ sound like Danny Gokey's work.

Already they rapped upon the door, men claiming to be there to satisfy the curiosity of their wives but were just as curious and prone to gossip. They tried to peek in through the window, bribe and trick the deputy into opening the door for a public viewing, desperate to be a small part of the biggest news story to hit Hope in its entire history--barring, of course, yesterday morning's robbery. As much as he loved and vowed to protect the people of this town, Kris regretted that they had stooped to Danny's level, caring more about the spectacle of the arrest than the guilt, or well-being, of the stranger involved.

"No interviews!" he opened the door the tiniest crack to shout to the crowd, an opportunist farm hand anxiously holding a pad and a pencil, hoping to make his fortune in sudden journalism. Kris made sure his body blocked any type of view of the jail cell inside; nobody gets a free show, and nothing gets revealed about Hope's prisoner until the lawman got the details hashed out. "No look-sees! Just go back to your homes--there's nothing to see here!"

Curious but not disrespectful, the crowd immediately began to thin, the resolve of Kris's squared jaw a clear note that he would not back down. The citizens all knew, either way, that any information they desired would be readily given by the sheriff himself, holding court at his own home, more than willing to tell the tale. As people began returning to their daily business or heading for the other side of town to hear Danny Gokey's version of the truth, Kris noticed one man in the crowd who did not call for a peek at the prisoner or an explanation for the trail of blood leading towards the sheriff's office door. Dressed in an immaculate white suit, irrepressibly flashy for most men in the West but modest for his tastes, Adam stood with an unsure expression on his face, eyes rimmed with dark but from sleeplessness, not kohl, silently asking permission to step inside.

Kris gave the slightest of nods towards Adam, and once the townspeople of Hope got bored waiting at a stagnant, uninteresting door, Adam quietly slipped inside. The sight that was awaiting him there, however, was not what he expected.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed when he saw the room, the smears of red along the doorknob and on Kris's hands, a trail of dark, drying blood leading to the motionless body in the jail cell. He stared at the scene, a macabre, horror-like room he never thought he would see Kris Allen at the center of. "Thought the rumors were false," he started babbling, unable to keep his eyes off the carnage. "Never thought Gokey could have done the damage he was bragging..."

"Oh, it's true," Kris deadpanned, reaching for a rag and cleaning his hands as best he could, the blood from the impromptu surgery still underneath his fingernails. The rest of the town, or at least the sensible-minded prostitutes at the Lambert Inn, must have shared Adam's skepticism that Danny could have shot and arrested someone. If this day taught Kris anything, it was never to underestimate an incompetent man when he's desperate.

Adam rushed over to the deputy, fearing the blood on his hands was not wholly from the prisoner. "Are you okay?" he asked, trying to mask the panic in his voice as it rose an octave. "Are you hurt?" He reached for Kris's hands but the younger man was hesitant; the brilliant white of Adam's suit was rarely seen in the West in places other than a virgin snowfall or a bucket of freshly-milked cream. The brothel owner was notoriously picky about his wardrobe and Kris simply couldn't handle adding one of his rants to the troubles of the day. But Adam's feelings for Kris overwhelmed his feelings for fashion and he insisted on touching Kris, ensuring his well-being, and he compromised on stroking a thumb against Kris's cheek while the deputy respectfully kept his bloodied hands behind his back and away from Adam's suit.

"I'm fine," Kris assured him, though he made no move to stop the gentle touch against his face, soaking in the gesture like a wine bladder drunk dry. He should have been more cautious--grimy, opaque window or not, he was in the goddamn sheriff's office and sighing dreamily at the touch of his secret lover's hand upon his cheek, it just wasn't smart, wasn't safe. But at that moment Kris needed the physical contact, needed some reassurance of something _good_ in this world. It was risky, but he was willing to take the risk; Danny was far too busy happily telling his story to the masses to return to the office, and it wasn't like the wounded stranger--eyes closed, brow knit in discomfort, shallow breaths the only indication he was alive--was in a condition to be watching.

Adam saw the stress and fatigue in Kris's eyes, wanted to kiss it away, hold him until all of last night was just an illusion. "You were gone all night, I was so worried." He recalled every act to grace the inn's stage, every drink ordered while waiting for Kris's return until he was the last one in the bar, the paradox of a lonely man in a brothel. "What happened?"

Taking a deep breath, Kris looked around the office, remembering the fight he had with the sheriff that led him to this position. "Danny did more than just arrest someone," he explained, pointing towards the jail cell, exhaustion in his voice creeping in just at the thought of his full explanation. "The guy was nearly dying when I got here, I couldn't just leave him."

"I understand," Adam said immediately, admiring the sympathy Kris held for a stranger; not many lawmen, or men in general, would have done the same. The way Kris mentioned Danny's victim inferred he was still alive; from the amount of blood in the office Adam would have assumed otherwise. "So he's--"

"Not out of the woods yet. I'm going to stay here and keep an eye on him, and make sure no one tries to get in here for a peek and fuel the gossip mill." His eyes fell upon the extracted bullet lying on the sheriff's desk, Kris's own bloodied fingerprints marring the grain of the wood; the desk of a dead, good man, tarnished by the deeds of his successor. "I took out the bullet and tried to clean the wound as much as possible," he said, finding no humor in the pained look on Adam's face just hearing about the procedure. Kris couldn't imagine what Adam would have thought had he actually witnessed it. "Do you have any bandages back at the inn, or some linens you're not using? All I've got's some rags here."

Adam snickered, assessing the familiar swath of fabric in Kris's hands. "Rags?" he questioned, quirking an eyebrow. "Looks like Gokey's spare pair of trousers to me."

"Same difference," Kris replied, with little sympathy to the original owner.

With an amused, inappropriate little smile, Adam nodded, agreeing to commandeer clean bandages and some iodine antiseptic from the inn. But first, he had to see for himself if the rumors Gokey spread were true, if the sheriff who had been nothing more than a nuisance up until last night actually did what he was claiming up and down the streets to have accomplished. "God, Kristopher, deserting me to spend all night with another man, I should be insulted," he said with a wink, moving around the desk in the center of the room to get a better look between the iron bars. "Maybe I should get a good look at him--"

Stooping down to the prisoner's eye level was unnecessary; Adam recognized the profile immediately, though encountering him now in much different circumstances, the stranger understandably much paler than before. "Oh my God," he said in shock, realizing how false the rumors really were; this man wasn't an outlaw at all. "I know him...he's staying at the inn."

"Are you sure?" Kris asked. "You get lots of patrons, Adam."

The deputy's statement was true, but Adam remembered the traveler clearly; the Lambert Inn had many patrons but not many of them stayed in rooms alone. "I'm sure," he said. "I remember him: skinny, quiet, brunette...totally my type." He looked over in Kris's direction to see a bemused frown on his face, which only caused Adam to smirk indulgently. The brothel owner liked to look, but he never did touch. "Oh, you know I have a type, just look at you," he toyed with Kris, his attempt to wrest a smile from the sullen deputy but his efforts fell short.

"Flattered, Adam, really."

Kris was in no mood for Adam's playful jabs today, not when his eyes watered from sleeplessness and his joints ached from keeping watch on the stranger's condition. And thank God he was unconscious; Kris didn't think he could ever explain away the conversation he and Adam were having right now. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his exhaustion away and replacing it with indecision and doubt. "I just don't know what to do about this," he admitted, weariness ingrained into his voice; he sounded far older than his twenty-four years to Adam, as if the experiences of the night mystically aged him, wore his idealism down. "He wasn't part of the robbery but Danny's dead set on claiming he's an outlaw; he thinks the town'll run him out of office if he doesn't deliver them one of the Kings."

"It'll be okay, baby." Adam approached Kris with sincerity, his heart immediately going out to the troubled deputy, wishing he could help in some way other than mere support. He took Kris's hands in his, delicately manicured fingers contrasting with rough, bloody palms. "You'll think of something."

Pulling his lower lip in by the teeth insecurely, Kris looked up at Adam, his familiar, comforting blue eyes inviting him to open up, reveal what his mind had repeated over and over to him like a magpie. "I can't let a man die over Gokey's damn ego. He's calling for a judge from Santa Fe; he wants this to go to trial."

"You could write to them yourself," Adam suggested. "It'll take a long time for a judge to get here from Santa Fe. Tell him there's been a misunderstanding...or, the prisoner died, and there's no reason for him to go through the trouble of coming to our little Hope."

"Or I could testify," the wheels were turning in Kris's mind now, his plans tentative except for the primary goal to keep an innocent man's neck out of a noose and Danny Gokey's lauded name out of the papers. "Let everyone know that Gokey's got the wrong guy."

"Or," spoke up a voice from behind the pair, hoarse from exhaustion and disuse. Kris and Adam turned quickly in the direction of the voice, their eyes wide in shock at the sight of the wounded stranger, very much awake, alert, and alive, propping himself up on his good arm, a hint of a smirk on his face. "You could just let me go."

***

After their initial shock that Hope's wounded, unconscious prisoner was not quite as unconscious as the two men were led to believe, with Kris agast at hearing him speak and Adam announcing dramatically that his heart was about to stop, the conversation turned guarded, the lingering fear dwelling within Kris that the stranger had heard and seen more than he should have--more than Kris and Adam wanted him to see. They discovered that, as Kris suspected, he did nothing to provoke Danny's shooting, the wounded man also finding it rather distasteful of the sheriff to shoot someone in the back under the cover of night, though he admitted with a dry wit and a weak smile that he might have been a bit biased. He was still, expectedly, in quite a bit of pain, though thankfully his wound had stopped bleeding, the bloody makeshift bandage dry to the touch, and he remarked that the alcohol Kris gave him last night had been just as beneficial to him as the water.

Then, as they all found inevitable, came talk of escape.

For a wounded man his speech was well thought-out and practical, the conversation meandering from talk of his release only as far as he would allow it, then reining it back in like an unruly calf on a tether. Kris stubbornly refused to let the prisoner go without consequence: yes, he believed Danny had wrongfully arrested the man, and did so for selfish reasons, but Kris still upheld the law in Hope, despite his hatred of its execution. Besides, he had pointed out with a sympathetic frown, the man could barely muster the energy to sit up in the cell; Kris doubted he'd get very far by foot if Danny got wind of the escape and rounded up a posse, if he managed to get to his feet at all.

"And I'd probably have to be a part of that posse," he added sadly. After spending so much time and effort the previous night on keeping the prisoner alive, Kris found it such a waste just to have to track him down and shoot him all over again.

For far more selfish reasons that Kris kept to himself that day, not even sharing them with Adam for fear that he might try to convince him otherwise, the deputy wanted to keep the prisoner there for the same reasons as Gokey: job security. If Kris allowed Danny's prisoner to escape, the sheriff's hopes of redeeming himself in the eyes of the town--as well as the whole of the West--would be dashed, and undoubtedly his rage and revenge would fall upon Kris's shoulders. The paranoia in Danny Gokey's mind was always present; he might even go so far as to turn the rest of the town against Kris, making him lose more this time than just the position of sheriff. He couldn't bear the thought of being ostracized by the town he opened his heart to and made his home, and if they forced him to leave...

He looked over to Adam briefly, felt his heart soar and his lips curl into a smile from just the sight of him. He could never leave Hope, never.

"We don't even know your name," Kris countered, crouching down to meet eyes with the stranger, who had finally managed to hoist himself up to a sitting position, his back against the wall of the cell. Kris placed a hand to his chest in a gesture of good faith, the stranger relatively talkative about methods of escape but tight-lipped about his identity. "I told you my name yesterday, if you recall it." He gave a half-smile, hoping the wounded traveler would join in. "Though I understand if you were a bit distracted to remember."

With thoughtful, discerning eyes, the stranger surveyed Kris, internally assessing his character as much as he was jogging his memory. Of all things, Kris thought that he should be the one analyzing his prisoner's character: Kris couldn't be sure exactly what the other man had seen between him and Adam, the clasping of hands, the gentle brush of a thumb against his cheek that had made Kris sigh out of pleasure. The fact that this man was being as guarded about his own life as Kris was being about his unsettled the deputy, made him fear what a wounded, desperate man could do with that information.

After a moment of thought a weak smile spread across the stranger's face. "You're Kris," he said, his tone slow in speech from both fatigue and a careful planning of his words. "You're the deputy here." He paused, the calculating expression in his eyes giving way to a sincere gratitude, one that spoke of his character far more than any of the carefully crafted words he said. "You saved my life last night. I can't thank you enough for that."

Kris couldn't help but smile back, feeling the blush in his cheeks and a swell of pride that he had done something important in his role as deputy, repairing what his sheriff could have destroyed. And, in gratitude for his actions, Kris received the courtesy of knowing the stranger's name. "I'm Andy," he said after an internal deliberation; Kris wanted to press further out of sheer curiosity, but the look on the wounded man's face told him that would be all he'd reveal to the pair.

"I'm Adam," spoke up the voice beside Kris, his eyes lighting up at the thought of introductions. No matter how many people he encountered or the scores of them he promptly forgot, Adam always liked introductions. "We met before; I own the Lambert Inn down the road." He thrust his right arm in between the iron bars with a grin, absent-mindedly meaning to offer a handshake; sympathetically Andy looked down at the outstretched hand and shrugged, glancing down at his own heavily damaged, bloodied right arm. It was the best indication he could give that, had he the ability, he would gladly return the introduction.

"I remember you," Andy nodded, eyes squinting as he replayed in his mind the first time he had met Adam Lambert. He recalled there being a lot more glitter involved. "You checked me in." His eyes then grew cloudy, confused; he understood the presence of the deputy in a sheriff's jail but the owner of a brothel checking in on a town's inmate made little sense. "...This isn't the inn..."

"He's a friend," Kris interjected quickly, before thinking of the implications of such a word on his own heart, or on Adam's. The quick flash of surprise and hurt in Adam's eyes was lost on the deputy, who focused on the knowing half-smile Andy gave the both of them. He understood what manner of friendship they had, but he would not speak a word of it to a soul.

Still the town's sole prisoner persisted with his talk of escape. Andy wasn't the negotiator of the Kings but he was the best damn observer that ever dirtied their boots with Hope soil; now he just had to borrow a bit of David's power of coercion to put it to his advantage. Where there was a will, there was a way, and Andy had to get back, he just had to. "I have friends, too," he said after a while, though he didn't care to indicate whether or not they were the type of friends he reckoned Adam and Kris to be. "I've got to get back to them...they're waiting for me."

Adam narrowed his eyes skeptically; it was a different story from what he remembered upon their first meeting, of a solitary traveler probably on his way to the riches of the Pacific. "Thought you were just passing through," he said, Kris immediately picking up the wary intonation of Adam's voice.

"Was getting supplies," was Andy's succinct and quick answer; a little too quick, admonishing himself, the half-truth sounding like a well-practiced excuse--which, of course, it _was,_ but Andy hadn't expected it to sound so obvious.

He took a deep sigh, eyes closing, the darkness behind the lids conjuring images in his head of Neal's eagle eyes searching the horizon for him, heart already on edge from an unexpected, lonely night watch. The deep, guttural feeling of loss was aching from his chest, and not other parts that tended to stir when riding back to Neal after a heist. Andy was starting to think his desire to return to camp, to see Neal again, had nothing to do with the sex they shared.

"They're my _people_ ," he said, breathing the word out like ambrosia, like precious gold. His brow furrowed on its own accord, his heart aching with longing.

Cocking his head to the side and sporting a bemused pout, Adam still appeared doubtful of Andy's sincerity here, his instincts as a successful businessman kicking in, refusing to let him see anything at face value. But the man at his side--the deputy who held the keys to the jail cell--instantly softened at Andy's words, sympathizing with him in ways he hadn't considered possible. He had people, too: every man, woman and child in Hope who depended upon him, who entrusted Kris to protect them from the evils that plagued the West, whether they be from outside the city walls--or within.

"I wish I could do that for you," he said, the regret heavy in his voice, noting from Andy's slumped shoulders that he had been holding out hope, too. "You're my responsibility...but you're the sheriff's prisoner. If I let you go...there would be repercussions."

The comment earned Kris a dramatic roll of a pair of blue-gray eyes to the ceiling; Adam wished Kris wasn't always such a stickler for the law. " _Forget_ about what Gokey's going to do," he groaned. It was times like this he wished he could take charge himself of the situation, storm across town to Danny's homestead and show him a _real_ man doesn't solve his paranoid problems with a bullet in someone's back. If Kris wanted to do things his way, Adam would stand aside and respect his good judgment; but he wouldn't allow Kris to do things _Gokey_ 's way. "His common sense couldn't fill a thimble. He's not even worth our breath, especially after this."

Kris took in a deep sigh; the argument was always the same, and as much as his heart would have loved to agree with Adam, the badge pinned to his chest forced him to do otherwise. "He's still the sheriff and I've got to mind him," he said. "No matter how incredible it may seem."

"Funny," spoke up the prisoner; both heads turned towards the jail cell, Andy's wounded body still propped up against the back wall, but a spark of cunning in his eyes brought new life to his features. "He's exactly who I wanted to talk to you about."

While each man in the small building had a personal distaste for Danny Gokey, they all agreed that Andy's was the most recent and by far currently the most significant. In rare form Andy discussed what he had learned about the other men's grudges, dismissing away his hidden observation skills by only admitting he "asked around:" how Danny had won the position of sheriff over the more deserving Kris, and that his first order of business was to bring down the Lambert Inn. Andy never revealed his secrets to others outside of the Kings, knowing a slip-up could be a death sentence; but he wasn't too far off from that fate already, and what he had learned about Hope for the bank heist could now pay off more than he had ever imagined.

It wasn't difficult to convince Adam and Kris that Gokey was more than just a nuisance and a threat to the both of them; with this shooting, he was a danger to those in the town, strangers and residents alike who merely got in between the ambitious sheriff and his lofty goals. That's why, Andy concluded, Danny Gokey needed to disappear.

Kris balked at the thought, eyes widening in shock even from the proposition. "We're not killing anyone," he insisted; it was unlawful, it was immoral...and it would prove he was no better than Gokey, stopping at nothing to achieve his own desires.

Andy tried not to roll his eyes visibly in front of the deputy: despite being a rational, resourceful man who deserved the outlaw's respect, he was quickly discovering Kris's optimistic idealism and staunch support of justice was a real drag. "I'm not talking about killing him," Andy assured him, though it would undoubtedly make the outlaw's week if he could get a shot at the sheriff. "I'm not even talking about hurting him. Just...getting him to leave town, unannounced. And making sure he doesn't come back."

He explained, very succinctly and giving no more away than he desired, that the people he had waiting for him, once he was returned to them, would help Kris and Adam alleviate their problem of the pesky sheriff. Aware of the dangerous line he toed, Andy kept details to a minimum, giving away none of the Kings's identities nor his own, simply stating that his friends could intimidate Gokey into deserting Hope on his own accord. The threats and restrictive ordinances placed on the Lambert Inn could be lifted; the town's loyal deputy could take his rightful place as their main lawman. And Andy and his people could ride off in the New Mexican sunset, never to trouble the town with their presence again.

"No violence, no bloodshed," he negotiated, a little disappointed with Kris's conditions. The Kings only killed when they had to, and he knew David felt quite strongly about selfishly taking a life, but he assumed his fellow outlaws would have gladly taken Gokey as an exception. Especially Neal.

"You sure they could scare him enough?" Kris raised an eyebrow.

Unable to hide the amused smile spreading across his face, Andy nodded, pleased with the added relief that it no longer caused stabbing shots of pain when he moved his head. Always a good sign. "Oh, I think they can handle it."


	16. Chapter 16

_"He never killed a man that did not need killing." - Inscription on the grave of gunman Clay Allison_

 

The impending storm Neal had predicted would slam into their camp had not yet arrived: the skies were still bright and cloudless, the shine of the desert sun more notorious than the outlaws' reputation bearing down upon them. Kyle thought that perhaps Neal had miscalculated, that he was too preoccupied with watching the ground before him to properly read the sky above. Even the Dr. himself began to doubt his initial suspicions, braving his ominous prediction and riding off for an hour or two with Sixx; he had claimed he was hunting, and had returned with two jackrabbits for a hearty supper, but both Kyle and David agreed without words that he had been looking for Andy, searching in the valleys and crevices he could not see from his perch on the ridge.

When David made the executive decision to move their camp underneath the dry safety of the ridge, it was the only time the leader of the Kings admitted they were lucky Neal decided to return at all.

Clouds began to roll in almost from nowhere, dark, low-hanging curtains of mist and rain that blotted out the stars in New Mexico's moonless sky. It was trouble enough for Kyle to corral the horses underneath the ridge, the beasts so used to only the heavens above them at night that the curved protection of the ridge left them restless and jumpy. When the first droplets of rain came, disrupting the desert dust in fat, menacing drops, the lingering bite of the cold Arctic in each one, Kyle looked to the sky, thankful the Kings were not sleeping on the open plain tonight.

Neal had stubbornly resumed his position above the ridge, his search growing more futile with the darkening of the sky, and once the rain began to fall David shouted quite convincingly that if Neal caught his death up on that ridge, David would leave him there and wouldn't bother to bury him. Only the impossible task of searching the entire desert in a rainstorm and the smell of roasted rabbit wafting up to his senses brought Neal down from his perch, and from the disgruntled frowns and grunts Neal added to their supper conversation, Kyle assumed he wasn't too pleased about it.

It would have been a wash of a guard watch, Kyle believed, as he served the horses their supper after the men had eaten, a ways away from the fire David had miraculously been able to rekindle in the face of the storm. The impenetrable blackness of that particular night left a man blind to any approaching riders, the only light coming from the distant and ominous flashes of lightning streaking across the sky, slicing through the darkness like a bullet racing towards its mark. And the oncoming dull roar of a rainstorm was sure to drown out any semblances of hoofsteps, no matter how familiar or comforting they may have been to Neal's ears.

It was only when he heard the noise of hooves himself--two pairs, one deliberate and urgent, the other more distant, and from a different origin--did Kyle realize how wrong he was.

Thankfully hesitant to shoot first and ask questions later, David's eyes widened as he saw the man ride into the light of the camp fire, the familiar figure high in his saddle, a grim expression on his face. "Ryan!" he shouted, his befuddlement evident in his tone. "Long time, no see."

No one had to point out the sarcasm in David's statement or the urgency with which he meant it. Ryan Star was a loner, and never spent more time with the Kings than he had to; thinking back to their most recent meeting, merely days before, David thought that Ryan would have been halfway to Texas by now.

"Was riding down the Santa Fe trail," he wasted no time, the courier's information at times lifesaving. He did not even take the time to dismount, the booms of thunder in the distance growing ever louder, the air colder with every gust. Ryan looked ready to ride the moment he gave the details to his outlaw patrons, bolting for the first stick of civilized shelter he could find; he had already decided in his mind not to stay for long. "I heard...something. Rumors, secondhand stories. But I thought you should know."

"What is it?" David did all of the talking for the three Kings, Kyle remaining with the horses and Neal more than content to let David represent them as always. He watched the deep shadows of Ryan's face, enhanced by the flickering, bright camp fire, and recognized the emotions, the hesitation; the regret.

Kyle divided his attentions between the task of feeding the horses and eavesdropping on the conversation with Ryan, finding it difficult to concentrate on either and giving both a halfhearted job. He was finding it particularly difficult to rein in Sixx, who had grown restless underneath the ridge and pulled at the bridle towards the frigid night. Typically the most peaceful of the outlaws' horses next to his own, Kyle couldn't understand the sudden change in temperament, assuming it might have been from the search Neal had set them upon earlier in the day, until he heard those faint hoofbeats again, louder this time, and more distinct. Kyle's jaw dropped, sinking down with his optimistic hopes, as the horse ambled into the dim light, riderless, returning to her place with the others as if she always knew how to find her way back home.

***

When the next words from Ryan's mouth were an excuse, David knew the information was far more dire than a gunfight in a dirty saloon. "It could just be rumors, I don't want to alarm you," he said, but the alarm was already set, David's nerves on edge, expecting a shootout, an ambush...anything was possible on this kind of night.

Neal kicked the dampening dust aloofly, finding Ryan's abatement of his information to be a waste of time. If the courier could just get to his point and then get the hell on his way, then--

"Uh, guys?" called Kyle's voice from the far end of the camp, the outlaws' fire only casting dim shadows of the kid against the ridge wall, distorting his frame into something monstrous. The three men turned to the approaching figure, who led a horse alongside him, the pair growing into focus with the additional light. It was a chestnut mare, weary and exhausted from a rambling, riderless journey, a path that should have only taken hours lasting over a day. The bridle, saddle and tack were all hauntingly familiar to the Kings, as well as the gun holster tucked in at Vera's flank, the revolver still securely held inside.

Neal's mouth went dry, his lungs seizing up, refusing to breathe.

He quickly turned back to Ryan, eyes flashing with a dangerous desperation no one had ever seen in him before. " _Tell me,_ " he growled.

The sudden, menacing change in the sharpshooter's demeanor startled Ryan, the courier unaccustomed to even the most common of Neal's mood changes; he paused, but only for a second, the look in Neal's eyes telling him the information he had been ready to ignore was now more precious to him than Ryan's life. Now was not the time to beat around the bush. "They say there's been an arrest; a shooting," he said, forcing himself to look away from Neal's gaze, the stare both haunting and murderous. "Rumor has it, it's one of the Kings. Some people say they saw blood, but no body--"

"Where did they say it happened," David asked quickly, his face turning stony, and serious; the determination in his eyes was much different from that of Neal's. It could have been an easy mistake, a braggart bounty hunter apprehending a stranger and pulling him off as a King for the reward; it could have been Joey, meeting an unfortunate fate, having finally encountered the ruthless posse he so feared. David needed to hear the whole story before he made any assumptions; Neal, ruled by emotion, had already made up his mind the moment he saw Vera without her rider.

Ryan took a deep breath; the rumors he had heard along the trail coincided with far louder murmurs of a robbery in the same town. "Some tiny settlement, called Hope," his voice held the pure opposite of the name's meaning, full of a discomforting pity and despair for the gang of outlaws who, in all the years in their line of work, never had a man fall.

Those were all the words Neal needed to hear. Without another breath he was stalking towards his mount, hands balled into fists, jaw locked into a frown to keep from trembling. His throat tight, head buzzing with painful, white noise, his thoughts were on nothing but getting back to Hope, his mind too red-hot with rage to attempt formulating a plan.

That was Andy out there; it had to be Andy out there, and no force by nature or man could cleave Neal from his anger.

But it didn't mean David wasn't going to try. "Neal!" he shouted, the hint of panic in his voice overwhelmed by the booming authority, ready at a moment's notice to push emotion aside, to be the leader the Kings required in times of crisis. The times for emotions--the fear, the guilt, the grief--would all come later, if the outlaws still had the breath and the heartbeat to feel them. Right now, David needed to take charge until they found more details on the shooting--and the most important detail was keeping the Dr. grounded. "Neal, get back here!" He dashed off without any remarks of goodbyes to Ryan, the situation too urgent for pleasantries, leaving Kyle alone with the courier and his grim news.

With a distressed frown Kyle looked up at the man on horseback, whose eyes held a deep regret that he had to deliver such turmoil to friends. "Is there anything else?" he asked, the slightest bit of optimism in his tone, hoping that Neal and David had run off before hearing that the arrest was all a misunderstanding and Andy would be riding back to them in no time, safe, whole, and as lively as ever. But even as he asked Kyle knew it wouldn't be true, the mare by his side and the bridle in his hands enough of an indication that something in Hope went horribly wrong.

Ryan shook his head, all of the information he could glean from the road without riding into Hope itself already given to the Kings. And so the task of bidding him goodbye went to the youngest member of the gang, whose chest burned with a growing fear over what this news meant for Andy...what it meant for all of them.

"It's gonna be quite a night, girl," he said to the exhausted Vera as he made his way towards Neal and David, whose quarrel drowned out the thundering sounds of the approaching storm.

"You can't just run out of here!" David protested, catching up to Neal as he was hoisting his saddle over his shoulder, wasting no time in preparing Sixx for a dangerous journey. The fire David saw in Neal's eyes, the anger fueling his actions...he knew the Dr.'s judgment was clouded by instinctual reaction, but he couldn't very well blame him for it, either. "You've got no plan!"

"Don't need a plan," Neal muttered under his breath, strapping the saddle across his mount's back, unsure whether his blurry vision was from the low, distant lights of the camp's fire or from his own emotions, slamming into him with such force he could barely see. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should agree with David, that riding out to a town that had deceived them in its innocence, with a threatening storm on his heels and the dangers of violence and bloodshed awaiting him, was a mission for fools at best and for dead men at worst. But none of that mattered to Neal, his heart and his stomach deeming critical thinking irrelevant. He buried his hand into the box of spare bullets, retrieving a fistful and briefly pausing to contemplate bringing along the entire box.

David gritted his teeth, his shouts only becoming louder the longer Neal ignored him; if he allowed Neal to get on his mount and ride away, with only a vengeful rage fueling his actions, David feared he would never see either of his best friends alive again. "You're gonna get yourself killed! You think that's what Andy wants?"

A flash of lightning, far closer to the camp than the last, stopped David in his long, hurried strides to catch up with Neal, the intense flicker of light illuminating the sharpshooter's features as he turned to glare at David for the first time since their argument began. He looked instantly aged, worried wrinkles and creases on his face that were not there before; whatever youthful virtue Neal still had before, that thin line he and the Kings danced between invulnerability and innocence, had been destroyed. What replaced it was dark, blind emotion, revealing in his eyes a man teetering on breakdown; he had to keep moving, keep acting, because he knew of no other way to live.

In that moment David saw how far Neal would go for Andy: he would kill in the name of the Kings, he would die proudly by David's side in a gunfight...but he would take on the entire world for Andy, ride to the depths of Hell and back, suffer a thousand deaths just to have him by his side. David would have thought it was noble, hell even a little romantic, if it hadn't been so utterly stupid.

Then Neal's face contorted into a sneer, a clap of thunder nearly overtaking his rage. David shouldn't have mentioned Andy by name; before that it was just the uncertain possibility, the dreaded fear in all of their minds that the shadow's luck had finally run out. Now, like a child's horror game, he had spoken the fear aloud, gave it substance; made it real. Neal looked as if he may never forgive David for that.

"So we should just sit on our asses and wait?!" he shouted; outside, past the shelter of the ridge, the intermittent, threatening drizzle finally gave way, the skies opening up all around the Kings in a torrent of cold rain, like the gods themselves released Heaven's floodgates. "Telling us to wait's what got us here in the first place." A low blow; the slow drip of guilt seeping into David's conscience now crashed into him with a roar, Neal pulling no punches in reminding him who told Andy to linger in Hope in the first place.

"We can't just rush in there," David stressed. "We don't know enough of the facts...they could even be expecting us. We could be riding right into an ambush."

"I can't wait for some fucking _plan_ , Dave, not when he's out there. I can't."

"I won't let you go," David insisted, though doubtful that anything short of a bullet would stop him--and even then, that would have to be some hell of a shot. David never thought he would train a gun on Neal but it didn't stop his hand inching towards the revolver at his side, a leader desperate to keep his men together at any cost.

It was no rare occurrence to see Neal and David arguing: Kyle estimated it happened once a week or so, their forward personalities often clashing with their ideals. Neal was a man of action without strategy, and oftentimes disagreed with the path on which David had shepherded the other outlaws. But their shouting matches were always regulated by the calm, cooler head of Andy Skib, the shadow of the Kings having the advantage of knowing how both men thought and reacted towards one another; he mastered countering their fights with neutral alternatives and arguments never grew out of hand in the six years the three of them called themselves an outlaw gang.

But Andy was _not_ here, and that was the main cause of the argument as well as the reason for its escalation. He could have prevented the shouting match long before it began, but as it was, only Kyle was there to stop it, lacking the same means and expertise. His eyes widened as he saw David's hand move towards his revolver in the dim light, knowing the fight had gone too far; stop it he must.

His arm shot out towards David's, grabbing it at the wrist before it could reach its destination. David would never shoot at Neal, the revolver a last-ditch attempt to restore the Dr. to his senses; but both David and Kyle knew that Neal was past the point of sense, that not even his best friend with a gun trained on him would stand in the way of reaching Andy. And neither man could be certain that Neal would have the same qualms about shooting a friend.

"That's not gonna solve anything," he explained quickly to David; Kyle needed to be taken seriously in this time of crisis. He was a part of the Kings, too, and had just as much invested in this dire news; he had just as much at stake. If David had the luxury to think on it at that moment he would have been impressed with the kid and how far he had come since first arriving as a gobsmacked boy looking for adventure and growing into an assertive, impassioned man. But there was far too much for his mind to focus on now, and the shortcomings of his leadership skills stared him in the face--Andy's capture, Neal's threatened desertion--forced David's thoughts onto the negative.

Shouting at each other was getting the Kings nowhere; Kyle had to try a different approach, and fast, or they would lose Neal--to the storm, their enemies, or worst of all to his self-destruction. "Neal!" Kyle's voice, rare to speak up and even rarer to shout at the sharpshooter, caused Neal to look up from his task of saddling his horse and gathering supplies for a hasty exit. The eyes that met Kyle's gaze were hard, unrelenting in their anger-fueled determination to retrieve their fallen partner. They caught Kyle off-guard, finally experiencing the ruthless, violent Neal he was first introduced to in legend; but instead of shrinking away from the threat Kyle met it full-force, with expertise and knowledge Neal couldn't deny or ignore.

"If you ride out on a saddle like that," he indicated the haphazard mess upon Sixx's back, Neal typically more than capable of saddling his mount but careless in his haste, his mind understandably on more important matters. "You're likely to lead the both of you to your deaths." The control in Kyle's voice was unprecedented; he knew he had sought the thrill of adventure when joining the Kings, but never thought it'd be like this. "Now, you can do what you please with your own life, but Sixx has been a mighty good horse to you; I won't let you do him in like that."

It was the one angle towards the argument David had never considered to try, and the one detail that gave Neal pause, staying his hands as they secured the tack. He could content himself with riding blindly to his death, facing a sudden, treacherous storm and the unknown threat of the town by himself, but he hadn't considered the fate of his horse. The black and white speckled horse waited patiently for his rider, calmly trusting in whatever journey Neal prepared for them, completely ignorant of his owner's recklessness. Kyle was right; it would be an evil thing to do to such a loyal beast.

Neal's pause gave Kyle a moment todetermine what his next plan of action would be. His appeal would only keep the Dr. here until he was able to correctly saddle his horse--or steal another whom he cared less about--so Kyle had to find a more permanent solution to preventing Neal's departure. And, from observing the argument with David, yelling at him wouldn't help one bit.

"I'm gonna try to talk to him," he said under his breath to David, though Neal could not hear their lowered tones regardless, the tension buzzing in his ears working like blinders, focusing him only on the task he needed to complete. David wasn't faring any better: he was ignoring the emotions swirling through his mind over the news, unlike Neal who let them overtake his actions without thought to the consequences. They both needed time to allow their heads to cool, to stop feeding off of each other's reactions and think logically to bring Andy back. "And...you're kinda freaking him out."

He received a suspicious, raised eyebrow in response from David, but someone needed to take charge in this moment of crisis, Neal was ill-equipped and David had tried and failed. It was up to Kyle to keep the Kings together now. "So just, go...there," he instructed David, waving his arm in the vague direction of the other end of camp. Kyle may have been the only man with the capabilities to hold the outlaw gang together that night, but he never said he had _everything_ planned out.

Kyle had no idea what he was getting into: David had known Neal for over six years now, seen the sharpshooter at his very worst, and the temper of the Dr.--especially when it involved Andy--was not something to handle lightly. "Look," he reasoned; Kyle was going about this the wrong way, he thought, though David did heed Kyle's order and took a few steps back to the nebulous region of "there." "I know you mean well, but kid--"

"I'm not a kid," Kyle shot back, and the breeziness of his retort, as well as the look of confidence he gave as he looked over his shoulder, made David finally realize that he was right.

Without another word Kyle stalked over to Neal, immediately undoing Neal's hazardous job of saddling Sixx. If his plan backfired and Neal raced off in the storm to find either Andy or death at his journey's end, Kyle would at least ensure his damn saddle was on right. His hands worked expertly on the saddle as he addressed Neal, eyes on him and voice nothing but sincere. "I know what you're feeling right now," he began, as Neal ran anxious hands through his hair, the energized coils in his body still making him seem like he would bolt at the first given chance.

His head shot up, mouth contorted into a sneer. "You have no fucking clue what I feel," Neal seethed. He hadn't meant to lash out but there it was, his natural defense, and God, he couldn't even recognize why he had reason to be on the defense. If only he could get out and do something about this he'd be fine, focus on action and not on the ever-growing emptiness in his chest, his heart collapsing in on itself.

Any other time, any previous situation, and the look of impassioned rage on Neal's face would have scared Kyle off into the next county. But he knew that whatever fear he used to feel could not have compared to the emotions Neal had at that moment. And besides, as the man had reminded him just earlier that day, Neal wasn't so scary, after all. "You're scared," Kyle persisted. The light in Neal's eyes changed, a rageful fire still burning inside but there was an extra clarity to them once Kyle said that word, the emotion underneath his anger he had been trying unconsciously to mask. It was the exact thing he needed to hear, and at the same time the one word was not nearly strong enough to describe his true fear.

"We're all scared," he continued, finally allowing the reality of Ryan's news to sink in for himself, the wild, brave outlaw gang that had seemed almost invincible to Kyle knocked down from legend. He didn't know what this could mean for Andy, or for any one of them; it could be, he fretted, the end of the Kings. "But I know you more than anyone."

"How can--" Neal began to protest, but Kyle cut him off; there was no need to pretend, no further use for hiding what he knew, what he could see between the pair.

"I _know_ ," he said, making sure Neal heard the deliberate stress in his voice, a clear, calm tone cutting through Neal's many layers of anger and hurt. "You more than anyone." It was all Kyle found he needed to say, the few words pressing their impact onto Neal, anger subsiding in the face of revealing the subtle truth. There was no scorn in Kyle's words, no judgment in his gaze upon Neal; only understanding and sympathy, a peaceful, silent declaration that in the urgency of the situation none of the Kings could hold back secrets from one another, repress truths even from themselves. It was Kyle's simple, straightforward way of acknowledging Neal's reaction over Andy's capture, understanding that this pain was over more than just the loss of a partner in crime.

Kyle knew that the relationship between Andy and Neal was unique among the Kings, that it transcended past the phyiscal and even the emotional to a connection the two men themselves were unaware they felt. But it wasn't until he looked into Neal's eyes, a flash of lightining illuminating the blue, that Kyle saw the extent of their affection for one another. More than their heists, more than the free, wild life of the outlaw--more than his own life and most assuredly those of Kyle and David in a heartbeat--Neal cared for Andy, in ways he had never cared for another soul and undoubtedly never would again. Their lives were so entwined, their history so deep, that it never even occurred to Neal that there could be the possibility of losing it all, and Andy the same for Neal.

He wasn't just scared he may lose him, Kyle realized; he was damn close to terrified.

And it was why David's shouting would have never worked to keep Neal at camp, why threats could not appeal to the common sense of the sharpshooter. David should have known from his own experience, Kyle thought, recalling the conversation he shared with the leader of the Kings, torturing himself over his tumultuous relationship with Kelly. There was no place for common sense when it came to the realm of love.

"But bursting into town without a plan won't solve anything," he continued, abandoning the saddle and tack, Neal stunned by the admission into immobility. He had stopped moving, stopped reacting blindly, and Kyle's words made him pause and gave him time to think, to feel--and oh God, now that he began, he couldn't stop. "We thought it was harmless...and we were wrong. We can't make that mistake again, not when there's so much at risk."

But Neal wasn't about to be talked out of it; his hands balled into fists at his sides, and Kyle actually believed the Dr. would strike him. His emotions began to overwhelm him in entirely different ways now, no longer fueling the fire towards blind, reckless action, feelings crowding and cluttering his mind, causing him to struggle to focus on Kyle's words and not on his own emotion. He said through gritted teeth the only thing that came to mind, a code the Kings had lived by for years, but never once had to die by. "We leave no man behind."

"And we won't," Kyle responded immediately; even to him the thought of riding off to safety and leaving Andy to a grim fate in town was deplorable, and well beneath the honor of the Kings. He couldn't imagine how that possibility weighed on Neal's conscience, his heart; he realized why the sharpshooter reacted so strongly against David's argument, why even the slightest hesitation was unacceptable to him. "I promise you, we won't leave him." Kyle took a deep gulp, swallowing the last vestiges of doubt in his gut; if his life's dream was to live like an outlaw, he had to overcome his fear of dying like one. "He's a King; Andy's one of us. We'll all fight to get him back...no matter what the cost."

"You're gonna come up with a plan?" Neal's tone held a bite that he did not mean to make; he hadn't meant to direct his anger towards Kyle, the kid had obviously done nothing wrong, but his frustration came out despite himself, desperate to find itself a target.

Well now, Kyle thought in dismay; that was the catch. He was a follower, not a leader, and he had never come up with a successful plan in his life--barring, of course, his plan to join the Kings in the first place, which had technically grown from the lack of an actual plan on Kyle's part. But if there were ever a seamless leader and organizer of men, it was the third man at their camp, who had orchestrated countless successful bank robberies in the past six years, leading the Kings with his plans throughout the West and into legend. "David will," Kyle supplied optimistically; though riding with the Kings had shown him David Cook wasn't as infallible as the newspapers' portrait of him, he had faith in the outlaw that he could guide them through anything. "He'll figure out how to get Andy back, I know he will. He won't let the Kings down."

***

He was within reasonable earshot, anywhere inside the dry confines of the camp was, underneath the canopy of the ridge where the natural curve of the sandstone amplified any sound to a hollow echo, but David did not strain to overhear their conversation; eavesdropping always seemed to be in Kyle's job description, not his. Fueled by the same types of emotions as Neal--though, he admitted with some humility, not justifiably as intense--he strained to focus on the facts they were given, the reality of their critical situation and not on emotion or instinct. Neal would handle enough of that for himself and the rest of the Kings; David needed to keep a level head and pull them through this safely.

If only he could concentrate on the present, and what their next plan of action would be, instead of the past, then he might have actually been useful to a soul.

Kyle came bounding up to him, his conversation with Neal apparently concluding; David squinted in the dim firelight but couldn't tell from the expression on Kyle's face if their exchange had been a good one. He couldn't have even imagined that Kyle would succeed in calming Neal when David failed; he had known the Dr. for over six years and believed he could handle his outbursts of emotion by now. But when Kyle came closer he saw a look of relief mixed with worry, and David knew the expression well; negotiations in their line of work always ended with a price. But he did note that Neal's boots remained on the ground, his impetuous thoughts of riding off and shooting through the town of Hope postponed. David had to hand it to the kid--no, not a kid anymore, Kyle had proved that himself--what he promised he would do without David's help, he had delivered.

But the cost would weigh on David's shoulders to the end of his days. "I talked to him," Kyle said once he approached the fire, a worrisome crease of his brow indicating he wasn't telling David the whole story of their conversation. "He'll stay, I think. He..." Kyle took a deep sigh, his mind reviewing what Neal had said to him, what he saw in his eyes that David's own emotions forced him to miss. "He just really needs to get Andy back."

David nodded. "What did you say to him?"

The insecurity in Kyle's eyes, his stance, crept back in, his gaze turning towards the ground, shoulders slumping. "I...promised him something," he said, hesitant to elaborate.

Before David could pursue the matter further, Neal stalked up to the pair, his boots making dull thuds against the packed earth, louder in David's ears than the thunderstorm around them. His look of determination had changed from before, the anger still burning inside him, itching to break free, but his talk with Kyle forced Neal to stop and reflect upon it, and his feelings over _why_ he felt so angry were stronger than those of mere rage. His jaw set, his hands in fists at his sides, Neal was an intimidating figure even to the man that had known him for so long, had seen him at his best and at his most dangerous. He was never prepared for that danger to be directed towards him.

"Come up with a plan," he ordered through gritted teeth, pointing an accusing finger in David's face. If he was the great leader of the Kings, if he masterminded their heists and elevated them to the infamy they both loved and hated, then David should have been more than capable to organize a way to get the four of them out of this dire situation. He had to, for all their sakes. "You've got till morning. Think of...something, Dave. And if you don't by dawn..." Neal trailed off, the rest of his threat unnecessary: they all knew what the consequences would be should David's calculating mind fail.

With one short yet powerful glare in Kyle's direction, Neal sent the younger man scrambling for some other place to be, a clear desire to speak with the leader of the Kings alone. Once Kyle decided tending to the exhausted, riderless horse that had returned to them was preferable to watching their conversation, Neal's voice lowered, losing the biting edge of his ultimatum before. Where a hard, piercing stare was before, was now sad, almost repentant eyes, a sneer downturning into a trembling frown. His walls were down, David recognized, and they let him peek into the raw emotion churning inside of Neal, the fears he didn't know he had until the news of Andy's capture broke.

David thought Neal was looking for consolation, some kind of assurance that despite what the Kings knew about the harsh realities of the outlaw life, they could all come out of this alive. But David had already misread Neal once that night; it was about to happen again.

"David." It had been years since Neal had called him by his full name, most often a telling look or a nod in his direction sufficing beyond names. The formalities told the outlaw Neal's words were important to him, to the both of them; they could even be crucial in the future of their lives or deaths. Neal wanted David to know he meant his words with the utmost conviction; that he lived by his words, and he'd die by them if he must.

"You know I'd follow you through anything," he began. From their first mission together, tracking and hunting down the lawman who had wronged David's family, Neal had followed David's lead, trusting in the other man's judgment, and though they commonly argued, in times of life or death Neal knew David would always come through. "I would die for you; I would kill for you, and I have." It all ran through his head now, the countless times David entrusted his back, his very life to Neal's capable trigger finger, how many times a heist had come down to gunshots, to blows; David was not ignorant of the fact he'd be dead now if it wasn't for the Dr.'s quick hand, and Neal the same for him. "You're like a brother to me."

But then his expression changed, a darkness sweeping over his features as thoughts of the man they left behind waded into Neal's mind. It had always been clear to David that Andy was very much not like a brother to Neal; that for all the loyalty the sharpshooter had for David, he would betray him to the dogs in an instant if it meant saving Andy's life. And this one time, it did. "But if he dies," he threatened, his voice cracking on the last word, the growl of the first three more than making up for it. "It is on _you_." His jaw clenched again, his eyes closed off once more to any emotion but anger. This was the threat David truly had to worry about. "And I will _never_ forgive you for it."


	17. Chapter 17

_"I never felt such feelings on earth as now seemed to take possession of me. I lay and thought of all my past life, and never before did I realize my true condition." - Bill Longley, on falling in love_

 

Kris had been unsure whether or not to accept the prisoner's offer, the proposition to allow Andy's friends to scare Danny Gokey out of town appearing less than sterling in the eyes of the law-abiding deputy. Adam had shook his head at Kris's indecision, claiming if the younger man got any more righteous he'd give Danny a run for his money, but in the end he agreed to whatever Kris decided, his strong convictions one of the elements about Kris that made Adam love him so. With but a few more curious townspeople he had to shoo away from the window and a short but irritating visit from Gokey to check on the condition of his ticket to fame, the deputy had the entire day to think about the offer and weigh his morals against his desires. As the traveler dryly reminded him, Andy wasn't going anywhere.

It was well into the night when he finally made his decision, when Adam had returned to the Lambert Inn to retrieve fresh bandages and Andy had slipped into a restless sleep, feigning unconsciousness when Danny had arrived earlier in the day and never quite returning to the energy levels he had previously. Hope's prisoner had given Kris a tempting proposition but it just wasn't something he could be a party to; he had qualms about releasing Andy as it were, and offering even more illegal dealings wasn't helping matters. Kris wanted to be rid of Danny Gokey, but at what price?

"They won't kill him," Andy had assured him before, the weariness in his voice masking his doubt that the Kings would be harmless if they ever crossed paths with the sheriff that nearly killed him. Kris made him promise, however, that if he did decide to take Andy up on the offer, that Danny would be left alive, albeit intimidated, and that Andy and his people understood if that word was broken Kris would be forced to bring swift justice upon them. Only because Kris had saved his life did Andy agree to such terms; the other outlaws would not be pleased to find out they couldn't make Danny disappear the old fashioned way.

"Your friends...your people." Kris joined his prisoner on the dirt floor, finding over the past few hours that it was more comfortable and amicable to converse on the same level, resulting in less of a strain on his neck. He could have used a good sleep, perhaps a long soak in Adam's bathtub to wash away the worries of the past twenty four hours, but he remained at his post, diligent as ever. He spoke once Andy roused himself from a fitful sleep, head barely moving, eyes opened to slits, the depression over injury and imprisonment sinking in. "You care about them, don't you."

Andy attempted a noncommittal groan in response, the muscles in his right arm seizing up from the rest, but too afraid of reopening the wound at his back should he try to exercise it. "It goes without saying," became his answer instead, hoping the conversation ended there. He held nothing against Kris but Andy wished he had not woken up to questions about his companions.

A strange smile played on Kris's face, as if he knew the answers before Andy even needed to respond. If Andy had been less groggy at that point--and if Kris the nursemaid had not taken away the bottle of gin--he would have found the line of questioning immediately suspicious. "There's someone special with them, isn't there," Kris suggested. "Someone you really want to get back to."

The question roused Andy's instincts, his eyes widening in response but his body and mind too exhausted to follow through. Instantly Kris apologized; whatever life this traveler lived, he did not like to be surprised. "In your sleep," he explained, seeking to apologize for listening as well, but when stuck inside a sheriff's office with only an injured prisoner's fever dreams as distraction, propriety on eavesdropping went out the window. "You were mumbling words; a name. Nell, or something." Oftentimes groups of settlers banded together to face the hazards of transcontinental migration, Kris assumed the traveler--once he had revealed he was not alone--had elected to come into town for supplies while the rest of the party waited, eager to return to their journey. The idea brought a soft smile to Kris's lips; it was such a normal kind of existence it was almost enviable. "Reckon I'd be looking to leave, too, if I had someone waiting for me."

The moment the words were said Andy couldn't get them out of his mind; his eyes drifted to the floor, his good arm wrapped around his waist, wishing it were someone else's. If he didn't return to the Kings soon he knew what would happen: though David might try to make a case for escape or desertion, he knew Neal would trample through the gates of Heaven or Hell to try and find him. There was no telling what could await an outlaw in Hope in a few days' time...by then Gokey's telegram would have surely reached Santa Fe, full of politicians and lawmen as opportunistic as the sheriff, or ambitious gunmen simply aiming to watch one of the notorious outlaws hang. The town could become swarming with men all out for a King's blood, and knowing Neal--stupid, stubborn, unstoppable Neal--he would ride right into the thick of it, revolver at the ready, to get Andy back.

He held back a sigh, closing his eyes, momentarily forgetting the other man in the building and thinking only of Neal, how Andy knew the actions the sharpshooter would take before he even made them. There would be no force to stop him from finding Andy or die trying; Andy knew this because he would do the exact headstrong, bull-headed thing for Neal.

"That fool's gonna get himself killed for me," he muttered under his breath. 

But he had not said it softly enough, and the words still caught the ears of the deputy, his attentions suddenly piqued. " _Him?_ " he asked, brows knit together, wondering if he had simply misheard the man. It could have just been a continuation of Andy's fevered mumblings, discerning no difference between sleep and wake; it could have been a misunderstanding on Kris's part, projecting something he felt himself. But curiosity got the better of Kris; something told him he hadn't really heard Andy call out the name Nell in his sleep, after all. "Did...you just say ' _him_ '?"

***

David shivered, and it wasn't from the bitter, cold thunderstorm descending upon their camp, making all of New Mexico a muddy wasteland . The fire, though dampened and flickering from the moisture in the air, still blazed on, but David didn't dare get near it to savor its light and life-giving warmth. Instead he remained on the outskirts of the camp, watching the steam billow from the horses' muzzles and getting periodically assaulted by a cold burst of raindrops, courtesy of a gust of wayward wind his way.

Neal was seated at the fire, staring into its flame without seeing, his permanent perch for the rest of the night. David couldn't go by there now, not with Neal around; he couldn't face him quite yet.

The last words Neal spoke to him rang in David's ears, memories of the threat louder than the constant barrage of water upon sand all around them. If the Kings made one more misstep and allowed for Andy to die before they reached him...Neal knew exactly who he would blame. It was painful enough knowing one of his best friends was wounded and captured in the line of his duty towards the gang, without knowing his condition or even if Andy was still alive. Neal made it clear that if David didn't take the reins of this situation it would fall upon the sharpshooter to head an operation, most likely unorganized, foolhardy, and alone.

David already knew if he lost one best friend, he would lose them both.

It fell upon David's shoulders to formulate a plan for the Kings. He was the leader and knew the responsibility should rest on him, had always been aware of his duty to the other men, to keep them safe and deserve their trust in a wild, lawless land where both trust and safety were nearly nonexistent. They had survived for years together, facing whatever dangers lay in their path, protecting and trusting one another, and through all the hazards they came out the other end stronger, wiser, and alive. It was that trust, David concluded with a heavy conscience, that made Andy linger within the town limits of Hope; it was because he, their leader, thought the harmless town would be safe. Now, that trust and that lazy misjudgment could cost Andy his life.

His confidences in his own leadership abilities were already rocked by Joey's departure: though he would have never insisted the other outlaw stay where he felt unsafe or targeted, David's rationality took a backseat to Joey's own fears, allowing them to consume him and make him feel that fleeing was his only option. The five invincible men who had made every boomtown in the West their personal piggy banks were now down to four, and David was the one who had not worked hard enough to keep the Kings together.

He took in a deep breath, feeling the cold spray of the storm against his lips and enter his lungs, its sting comforting, penitential. The camp felt empty with only four, but with three it was downright deserted. David refused to let that be a permanent change.

But devising a plan meant more than just the difference between another body at the campsite, another portion of a heist's profits to split. Andy was a dear friend to David, and the three Kings had been through so much over the years. His emphatic adherence to the Kings's unofficial code--to never leave a man behind in a heist, no matter the circumstances--was not just for show; the other men had grown to be a second family to him, sharing his triumphs as well as his griefs. Abandonment wasn't, and never was, an option for him.

A quick glance towards the fire, to the unmoving silhouette of the Dr., back towards David and hunched as if carrying a heavy burden; David only prayed that some others felt the same way.

They had always gotten along amazingly well for their strong personalities: both David and Neal always had to be right, stubborn to the end even when regarding the time of day. Neither man would ever relent until Andy, the voice of reason, stepped in; but when it concerned serious matters of the Kings they knew to focus on what was best for the gang. During a heist or in the heat of a gunfight David knew Neal was as loyal as an attack dog and just as dangerous, and both gunslingers would hold each other's backs to the death.

But when Neal had approached him that evening with his ultimatum--come up with a plan to retrieve Andy by dawn, or all bets were off--David saw none of the loyalty Neal had always expressed for the leader of the Kings. All of his faith, all his emotion was wrapped up in Andy, in missing him and hurting for him; dying to get him back. Though he never spoke it to either of them David always knew if the choice had to one day be made, that Neal would always choose Andy, and Andy would always choose Neal; a twisted take on the decision of Solomon where David was the one sliced in two.

His loyalty for David and for the Kings was the reason Neal's spurs still dragged through dirt on the ground and not dug hastily into Sixx's flanks en route to Hope. But resentment flared behind the raw emotion in his blue eyes, contempt Neal could barely hide. If David failed to come up with a plan he knew Neal would try to rescue Andy on his own--and, whether his mission ended a success or in tragedy, they would never return.

He couldn't blame Neal for focusing his anger on him; David owned that blame, accepted it with a heavy heart and a lump in his throat the moment he had heard Ryan's dire news. He was their _leader_ ; he should have stopped this. If Andy died he knew Neal would never forgive him, but David would also never forgive himself. He had lost his family once before, the fates of his mother and little brother haunting him to his grave; if he could prevent losing this family, too, he would use everything in his power to do it.

He had let so many others down in his life: now, when the Kings counted upon him to come up with a plan to save Andy, to save them all, he couldn't bear to let them down.

Finally feeling the weight of the news on his limbs, David relinquished his vigil among the millions of droplets of rain, the water upon his face, dripping onto his clothes and hands, not washing away the responsibility or the guilt he held. He rested upon his bedroll, his mind far from sleep, focusing on nothing but strategies and plans. David looked once more towards the fire, his best friend's sullen face now in profile, eyes staring into the fire but thoughts filled with his own personal turmoil.

***

Eight years. Eight years and Neal thought he would have gotten sick of seeing anybody's face day in and day out, like an ever-present shadow stretched over the sun.

But Neal spent nearly every day of the past eight years waking up to Andy Skib's face, and he knew in his heart an eternity still wouldn't be enough.

After presenting David with an ultimatum that could end their outlaw history--as well as their friendship--forever, he had found his rest beside the fire, though to call it a rest was to say the raging storm around them was a pleasant break from the desert heat. His eyes stared without seeing into the flame, far too focused on the thoughts inside his head to watch the flickering light, fighting to stay alive in the face of an all-encompassing storm. Even when the others bedded down for the night and he was left with only the cold winds as bitter company, Neal remained still, too engrossed in thought and emotion to move, to barely breathe.

His reaction to Ryan's news--that there was a shooting and arrest in Hope, the rumor trail saying one of the Kings had been the target--was startling to no one at the camp but himself; Neal was prone to bursts of rash emotion, always desiring to act and do something, but never that strong, that intense before. There were many times when the Kings had been in danger, stepping out into the blinding desert sun from the dark interior of a looted bank only to meet a firefight on the other side of the door, and Neal always acted accordingly, his instincts kicking in under pressure. He realized Andy meant a lot to him, in more ways than he could count, but he couldn't understand why he felt so strongly about it, to react in the way that he had, to feel as if he wanted to tear the world apart to find him. He hadn't ever reacted that way when David or Kyle were in danger, and he doubted he ever would.

What the two men shared was not something they commonly spoke about--Neal wasn't much of a talker to begin with and hell, if something ain't broke they shouldn't bother trying to fix it. They worked together like two halves of the same body, the intuition and companionship they developed over the years fitting them together like gears within a pocketwatch, running smoothly, flawlessly. It was unique but neither man thought anything significant about it, just another facet to the intricate, criss-crossing path of their partnership: they would rob and shoot under the leadership of David Cook, they would band together with the likes of Joey Clement and Kyle Peek to become the infamous Kings, but at the heart of it all, they would always have each other.

When they were younger Neal brushed off their physical contact as a necessity of the lonely life of an outlaw, the realities of riding alone and evading capture for their crimes leaving them with little company but each other. But as years progressed that unspoken excuse became brittle, crumbling with little effort against simple logic, and by the time they had agreed to join with David it was nonexistent, leaving them with their sex, their affection, without the rationalization. There was no defining what Andy and Neal had together and it hadn't bothered Neal in the least; it simply was, and that was good enough for him.

Now with a riderless horse at their camp and an empty patch of dirt where Andy's bedroll should have lain, Neal realized what a fool those excuses made him.

The swelling pain in his chest would not subside; the lump in his throat, which took residence there ever since Vera's shadow graced their camp, wouldn't go away no matter how hard he tried. He always worried about Andy never returning from a mission, his eyes glued to the horizon for the familiar rider whether it was his turn to stand guard or not. But he had never been prepared for how it would feel should it ever happen, like his heart was being torn from his body, ripping away from every tendon, every vein.

He remained at camp only out of respect for David's promise, allowing his loyalty and friendship with the outlaw to guide his decision to stay. But his body seized up in protest, shutting down movement entirely in retaliation for Neal not moving fast enough, not staying stubborn and strong enough to venture out on his own, to find Andy and raze the town in the process. He knew that if he stopped moving, stopped running at full speed towards his goal he would have to stop and _think_ on what had happened, how this ripped him apart and what it all meant to him. Now it all came washing over him at once, pelting waves of memory and emotion like the endless storm. Eight years full of reasons why Andy meant more to him than anyone else; why the fear of never being with him again, never looking into those eyes or pressing those lips to his, made it impossible to breathe.

Eight years of the outlaw life, of heists and adventures, of their triumphs and their dangers. Eight years of uncensored smiles, of deep brown eyes that always knew a friend; of desperate touches and stolen midnight kisses, bullets and banks and boys galloping towards manhood with only each other as a guide. Eight years of Neal knowing that, even if the continents crumbled and the sun ceased to shine, Andy would always be by his side.

And it only took one night, one bullet, to make it all come undone.

***

"Your sister's kinda hot."

Neal took a large, lazy bite into the pear stolen from one of the landscaped trees surrounding the Skib homestead, watching with amusement as Andy's face blanched, mouth frowning as if he were about to be sick.

"Please don't say that ever again," he muttered, taking a glance himself at the manor house he had just escaped from, infinitely preferring to spend the September day with Neal than sequestered inside the house, neglected and bored. His sister Alexis stood before a window facing the pear tree grove, a despondent look on her face as seamstresses flitted around her like mayflies, molding and constructing her wedding dress around her frame. Her gaze looked out towards the endless horizon but Andy was sure she had seen him dart across the lawn towards Neal, envying her little brother and his ability to sneak away from the societal confines of their home, if only for one day.

"Why?" Neal asked between chews, leaning his weight against the supple trunk; there was a striking resemblance between the siblings, though Andy's face was leaner, his eyes larger, the better with which to see the world. If Andy grew his hair out to his chin and donned a petticoat, Neal smirked as his mind wandered, he doubted even his keen eyes could tell them apart. "'Cause she's gonna be a married lady soon?"

Andy didn't answer; he simply continued to stare at the window, neither confirming nor denying to his new friend that was the reason he never wanted to hear those words from him again.

The entire homestead was brimming with activity, preparing every square inch of the Skib home for a wedding, from white bunting along the rafters to unearthing the finest vintages in the wine cellar. It had been an advantage to Andy's escape that day, overlooked in lieu of the hectic preparations. Even his lessons were cancelled for the day, though it had admittedly been years since Andy actually learned anything from his ancient piano tutor. The bustle of the manor, buzzing as if the house itself were alive, was unsettling to Neal who preferred few, trusted people around him than many strangers, but to Andy it was oddly comforting, the one time in his young life when he was not the center of attention in the house, subject to scrutiny by the public and overbearing ambition from his parents. For that day, it was his sister's lucrative bethrothal in the spotlight, and not the talent in his hands.

"It's some steel heir from out East," he explained to Neal; no one in his family had seen or met the man, nearly double Alexis's age, but his parents had sure seen his social stature and his bankroll, and that was the true love connection they sought. "Pittsburgh, I think. Lexi's not too thrilled about it--" Neal looked up at the girl's window again, the tears Alexis wished to shed clearly not ones of joy. Andy shrugged; both brother and sister Skib knew the paths their parents had chosen for them. "--but it'll get my parents' names in good with high society, I guess. Always looking to be on the up."

After losing a family and a home he had never known as an infant, and then raised within a culture that held no concept of voraciously acquiring wealth or owning land, much less people, Andy's parents confounded Neal, only slightly more than they infuriated him. He wasn't unfamiliar with arranged marriages, he just wasn't happy with them. "They got some marriage plans for you, too?" he questioned, picturing Andy looking equally as miserable as his sister while being primed for a privileged socialite back East.

He couldn't decide which he hated more: the thought of marriage or the fact that it was Neal broaching the subject. "Marriage...isn't really my thing," he said, eyes to the ground, hoping the shade from the pear tree's leafy boughs hid the reddening of his cheeks. "Their plans for me, apparently, are all about these." He held out his hands, fingers that had mastered the keys of a piano; palms that gripped the handle of a revolver now that Neal was teaching him to shoot. "There's a school in New York...a music school." When his parents mentioned it, scheduled visits with representatives and listening parties, it was a blessing and an opportunity; when he thought about it, especially in Neal's presence, the young man with no obligations or ambitions put upon him by others, it was an exile. " _That's_ what's in my future."

"Is that what you want?"

Andy would always remember that rare moment in his young life when someone actually _cared_ about what he wanted for himself. Neal knew the silence was his answer; Andy gave a longing glance towards the holster at Neal's side, then to the distance beyond the two, through the Skibs' pear grove and out towards the empty frontier. With blue eyes glinting with understanding, Neal nodded his head towards the clearing and away from the busy house, granting Andy the opportunity to escape that world, if only for a day.

***

There was nothing else left for him in Tulsa.

Neal scaled the wall of the Skib house, the decorative shingles along the exterior finally discovering their practical use. His belongings lay bundled in a horse blanket along with his horse below the second-story window in the manor house, Sixx as dutiful as the day he was foaled. There was no point in waiting until the morning; there was no time like the dead of night to embark on the rest of his life. He only hoped Andy would even speak to him once he reached the top.

The argument had been nearly a week ago but Neal could not get it out of his mind, the sad, defeatist look on Andy's face as he told Neal his fate had finally come to its due; the music school in New York was waiting for him. Neal raged enough for the both of them, frustrated with Andy's subdued surrender, demanding to know why he had not rebelled against his parents, fought to stay with him in Tulsa just a little longer. Andy had turned away from him in silence, unsure of how to react, what to reveal to Neal; and though he regretted it a split second later and had ever since, Neal felt that betrayal justified turning his own back on the younger man and riding away in anger.

It was Neal's damn pride that kept him from going back, though there wasn't one point in the past four days when that feeling of regret lapsed, when he feared the last words they would ever speak to one another would be an argument. The fourth night came, only hours before Andy was set to leave the territory for God knew how long, and Neal couldn't have that fight hanging over their heads for the rest of their lives.

Reaching the sill with some effort, Neal peered inside, a lone oil lamp in the far corner of the room casting dim, gauzy shadows along its walls. A trunk lay open and half-filled on a canopy bed, its owner packing for a journey quite different from Neal's. Andy stood in the middle of the room, surprised by Neal's appearance but never showing it on his face; he had been working on masking his reactions in front of strangers, but both men knew Neal was no stranger.

When his eyes locked with Andy's in the dim light, Neal knew he would be the only thing he'd miss about Tulsa. The only thing.

"I'm heading out," he announced once Andy helped him into the room, the windowsill not the proper place to hold such a conversation.

"You just got here." Andy tried to keep the tone light but there was no room for that between them, not tonight.

He answered in a hushed voice, reasoning to himself it was only not to wake the rest of the house; not because of emotions of his own. "I mean out; out of Tulsa. I've...I've had it with those old Indians." It was the Creek tribe that had it with Neal, deciding upon his coming-of-age to eject him from the reservation, claiming they now harbored a full-grown white man and an enemy to their people, Neal no longer the defenseless orphan they raised. If that's how they wanted to play it, then Neal was game: if after all these years they could still only see his blue eyes and blond hair, still consider the only red about him were the freckles on his skin, then they could starve for all he cared.

And if Andy was finally heading to the music school in New York that he loathed and his parents adored, well, there was no reason for Neal to stick around any longer. "I just..." He turned his eyes to the floor, ashamed of his cowardice. He feared his fate in the treacherous West if he couldn't even muster up the gall to say goodbye to his best--his only--friend. "I just came to say..."

But when he raised them again, Andy was staring back at him, eyes wide and just as fearful of the words as Neal. It touched him so intensely that he found an instant hatred of the word goodbye, and wouldn't even let it pass his lips. Neal left with a single, hasty nod of his head towards the younger man, making his way through the window and down towards his horse. He was halfway to mounting his saddle and riding off when he took one last look up at the window, forcing himself not to wonder if he would ever see Andy again.

He was surprised to see the lamp light, dim as it was, now completely extinguished, its warm glow gone from Andy's window. In a swift moment, however, it was replaced with the sight of Andy's slender frame as he hoisted himself over the sill, taking the distance between the window and the ground in one dangerous jump. In the pale moonlight their eyes met, and Andy did not need to speak for Neal to know his intentions. If he couldn't bring himself to say goodbye, Neal thought as the pair raided the Skibs' stable, Neal snatching a saddle while Andy led out the chestnut mare he cared for since childhood, then...then it wasn't really goodbye.

Leaving Andy's half-filled trunk and his train ticket to New York abandoned in the bedroom, the two rode off beyond the Tulsa borders, with Neal taking one look back at his childhood home, and Andy taking none.

***

It had been Andy's idea to rob the store.

He blamed himself for leaving his valuable belongings behind in their haste to flee Tulsa, the pair running low on cash and provisions before they even reached the territory line. Instead of having goods to trade to make their way, he suggested they use their talents instead, subjecting the outlying trading post to Andy's infiltration and Neal's quick draw. The owner never knew what kind of trouble blew into his store until it was too late, thinking only to grab his shotgun after the pair were long gone, riding fast as the wind with their hearts pumping and their pockets lined with bills.

They only stopped when their horses begged for it, finding themselves miles outside of Ada in a wooded hunting glen. Neal couldn't get his heart to stop racing and Andy didn't dare wipe the grin from his face--it had been terrifying but at the same time thrilling, staring danger in the face and coming out the victors. And they had done it together: they were outlaws now, no longer living by the rules of their parents, or tribe members--of anyone.

The exhilaration coursed through their veins as they dismounted, both men feeling the weight of the haul in their pockets. Neal let out a whoop, almost an animalistic howl at the sky as Andy laughed, his open mouth wide and cheerful, the smile reaching up to his eyes. They wanted to shout upon the highest peaks of the world of their success; they wanted to run their energy down into the ground, until their legs were sacks of flour and they did it all over again to reach that high once more.

In a quick burst of energy they embraced, still laughing, their grips tight upon each other's shoulders as they congratulated themselves on a heist well done. But it was when the laughter faded that they realized how close they were, Andy's head buried in the crook of Neal's shoulder, Neal's palm at the back of Andy's neck. They remained in each other's arms for a moment, Andy realizing that he had never been so close to another person before, save for being birthed, Neal pondering how the warmth of Andy's body was so different from that of the sun beating down on them, yet comforting all the same.

Neither man knew which one breathed out that short sigh between them, the tiniest of moans escaping with the breath--but there it was, the catalyst to what the pair hadn't even known they waited for. Their energy changed from erratic and pent-up to pleasantly expelled, hands roaming along each other's bodies, feeling flesh, muscle and bone underneath heavy cotton and leather. Neal worked a tentative roll of his hips against Andy's, erections brushing against one another through the fabric, and was rewarded with an instinctive bite against his collarbone, the moan muffled into his skin now undeniably Andy's.

Before he knew it Andy was exploring expanses of skin he never expected to wander, one palm cupping Neal's ass through his pants, holding their bodies flush together, the other snaking its way past the waistband, fingers brushing along the length of his cock, unwittingly teasing it as it jumped and Neal gasped. One quick movement of his own hands and Andy's pants were open, held up by sweat and luck, his cock securely in Neal's grasp as his pants soon followed. He grabbed them both in one fist, pumping in rhythm to the thrusts of Andy's hips against him, his mind focused on little more than the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears and the dull throb of Andy's pulse in his cock, increasing in speed alongside Neal's.

It was over almost before it began, the adrenaline running fast and hot in their blood ending its course in a matter of minutes, before either man had any time to realize or care how far they had gone. Andy came first with a shiver, biting back a shout of pleasure as he buried his face in the collar of Neal's shirt, hands gripping like vices into Neal's flesh, cock spurting onto the both of them. Neal's mind was overcome with sensation, sending him toppling over the edge, experiencing the shock and shudder of Andy's aftershocks as if they were his own. He shot his load into an already moist palm, using the lubrication on both of their crowns, his oversensitive head twitching, his back arching into the touch. Holding them in a sure grip, Neal was reluctant to let go, waiting until they both grew soft in his hand, the pair's embrace as tight as ever.

He could feel their heartbeats slowing, the rhythms matching, melding to one; Andy's breath still came in shallow, panting spurts, hot against Neal's neck, then trailing along the shell of his ear, dancing upon his cheek, as Andy's head rose from its position. Their eyes locked, startled, heavy stares upon one another, trying to unravel the jumble of sensation they had just endured, searching within each other for the answers to unspoken questions: why did they just do that? Had it truly happened, or was it some adrenaline-fueled illusion, some dream? And by any dear God in heaven, could they do it again?

The second question held a clear and simple answer, so stark and obvious from the deep, satisfied weight in Neal's gut and the spent seed of the both of them coating his fingers. The first question was far from being as clear-cut as that, and with a confused, undefined sadness Neal thought it would never be answered. This was a strange and sudden, if not overwhelmingly pleasurable, reaction to the success of their first heist, of spitting in the face of rules and conventions; their encounter was merely an offshoot of that, nothing more, Neal convinced himself. Their lives were filled with worries of surviving in the unmerciful West, Andy the only man Neal trusted with his life, with anything. That's what he had to focus on, not any hidden, subtle meaning behind what they just did.

They disentangled from their embrace, albeit a bit reluctantly, their energies spent and their desperate need fulfilled. Without uttering a word they cleaned themselves up and remounted, the haul from their first robbery hopefully enough to last them for a while, unsure if they would ever rob again, or if they even should. But the spark of recognition Neal saw in Andy's stare gave him the answer to the third question without ever speaking it; Andy hadn't been prepared for their encounter but he _liked_ it, as did Neal, and with all the power and will the two men could gather they would make sure it happened again.

***

They tore through the Indian Territory on their way to the Texas border, spending months meandering through hill and valley, living as they pleased with nothing but the daily weather and their own personal whims guiding them. Finding it was easier to liberate trading posts of their cash stores instead of finding honest work, they set about perfecting their skills and mastering their new trade. Andy was always welcomed but never noticed, discovering that open eyes and attentive ears made shopkeepers nearly beg for his attention. They provided him with the vital knowledge about their stores that he passed on nightly to Neal, robbing each store at gunpoint, their owners never deducing how he knew their weak points. And after each heist they reunited outside of town, away from luckless posses and spying eyes, and celebrated in their own unique way.

Their encounters had been perfected as well, molded and shaped through necessity and desire alike, their bodies inevitably finding each other again and again after each heist, like migrating birds always returning home. It only happened after their robberies, the thrill of escaping faultless, blameless, and rich building such an energy within them that could only be satisfied with physical release. Andy raised the stakes the night after their robbery in Coalgate, laying Neal down in the dark folds of the woods to wrap his mouth around Neal's cock, Neal nearly bucking his hips down Andy's throat and moaning loud enough to wake up half a reservation. Neal had brought it to a new level after they lifted a stagecoach of its earnings outside Kingston when he kissed Andy, slow and deliberate, after coming inside him for the first time, the silver rings threaded into his lower lip making dual impressions upon Andy's, marking him. They never spoke about what brought them to each encounter, or why it felt so good to be in each other's embrace, giving the other man this pleasure, far better than any of the saloon girls they had along their route. But Neal sometimes had a feeling they didn't excel in their life of crime _just_ for the money or the thrill.

The onslaught of a summer thunderstorm kept them indoors for the evening and away from any jobs they had planned to pull in Custer City, but the rain had no effect on their desire for action, their canceled heist only making their bodies itch for exhilaration. Finding shelter in the town's inn, they set to bed down for the night, a warm, dry room that, though expensive, was far preferable to spending the night cuddled up to oneself in a rain puddle. While Neal stabled the horses, Andy slipped the innkeeper an extra dollar to ensure the pair's privacy; they never knew who could be searching for the outlaws, and an innkeeper in their moneypurse was a much better friend to them than one in the sheriff's.

"Man, you should see it out there!" Andy held the oil lamp up to their window, marveling at the water coming down in sheets, patches of earth usually cracked and dry from the summer heat more resembling bogs. Neal watched his breath fog against the glass as he laughed, both men grateful they did not have to spend the evening in that dismal downpour. "Never seen any rain as bad as this in Tulsa."

"That's 'cause you never had the threat of _sleeping_ out in it," Neal reminded him, his soggy clothes sticking to his skin in the warm room and forming a messy pool of water by his feet. They had been lucky enough to find the room at the inn, but only after the skies opened up on them, soaking everything they owned. He peeled off his shirt and vest, with red leather boots and pants soon to follow, eager to rid himself of the wet clothing. Their crime streak through the Indian Territory was slowly making Neal accept the fact he would probably die young, but he'd prefer it to be in a courageous, glorious shootout than by catching his death of cold.

Frowning at Andy's own wet clothes, sticking to his slender frame and dripping onto the bed linens as he leaned towards the windowframe, Neal lobbed his discarded shirt in the other man's direction, laughing as it made an arc in the air and landed squarely on Andy's head. "Watch it!" Andy ducked but not in time, the shirt draping over his face and hair, covering his grin. "Don't make me drop the lamp, or we'll have more problems than just a storm." He held up the oil lamp in his hand by the thin wire handle, four smoky, well-used panes of glass letting the light through, flickering and shaky from Andy's startled grip. It cast the room in a greasy yellow glow as he gingerly set it down on the bedside table, the only source of light sending deep shadows scattering across the wooden floorboards and along the walls, the atmosphere hauntingly intimate. Through the soaking wet veil on his head Andy made out his companion's silhouette bending over to remove the last of his muddy vestments, tossing them all into a corner.

"Then get off the bed!" was Neal's quick retort, looking to aim a sock at the younger man next. "We gotta sleep on that, you know."

Andy's wit was sharper; he moved away from the bed and set to work on his own sopping clothes, pausing only momentarily to launch a choice hand gesture in Neal's direction. "I call the dry side, then."

"You're an ass," Neal said, the toothy smile spreading to the wrinkles of his eyes telling quite a different story of his amusement. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this, chuckling to himself as Andy hopped around the small room, wrenching the swollen leather boots from his feet with Neal's shirt still shielding his vision; Neal couldn't remember if he had _ever_ laughed like this, felt so secure in life, so alive. The irony was not lost on him that it took becoming an outlaw, he and Andy risking their lives in holdups and running from lawmen, for Neal to feel anywhere close to safe.

"But I'll be a _dry_ ass," Andy reminded him, blind to Neal's suspiciously devious smile as he undressed, thankful to soon be enjoying the comfort of a real bed that evening, a luxury he never thought he would miss so much. He supposed there _were_ a few things about his childhood that weren't so terrible, but only a few. He hadn't noticed Neal approach until the soaked shirt was pulled from his head, revealing the other man in the full light of the oil lamp, his grin positively infectious. Andy couldn't help but join in with a smile, a chuckle, then an outright laugh, neither man quite sure why they were in such high spirits but far too pleased to ruin the moment now.

Giddily retaliating, Andy shook his head vigorously in Neal's direction, water droplets from the shaggy head of hair he had been growing out spraying everywhere, predominantly falling upon Neal. With a great laugh Neal gave his own head a shake, though not nearly as effective as Andy's, whose hair had absorbed the moisture from the shirt upon his head like desert soil; he stilled the younger man's movements by placing a palm on either side of Andy's head, holding him there. He had grown too satisfied and happy in their fortune for the night to care about modesty, any apprehensions with Andy melting away as he felt hands rise to the sides of his own head in turn, Andy running his fingers through blond hair and leaning in, grinning. And when Neal finally bridged the space between them, bringing his lips down against Andy's, his naked frame pressed against his, he was still grinning, too lost in a moment of bliss to ever stop and contemplate why he felt so _good_.

Perhaps it would have been wise to stop then, their attraction raw and unprecedented by a successful heist as they always were before; perhaps they should have discussed these feelings instead of giving in to them without question, reacting with instinct and not reason. But then a tongue licked its way along Neal's lips, Andy gingerly asking for entrance, and with a needy, hungry growl Neal granted it to him, discarding any hesitation in the process. His hands moved downward, set to explore the planes of Andy's bare skin, wet from the rain and cool to the touch, as Andy's grip tightened on Neal's hair, aroused by the sensation.

Andy gasped into Neal's mouth as their bodies moved flush against one another, the slide of rough, tattooed hands down his back and palming his ass sending shivers through him, though the room was quite warm. A brief moment of disentanglement, a gulp of fresh air Neal had to take into his lungs, and the pair locked eyes, panting, their urges no longer a necessity but a desire, an entirely different kind of need.

They knew there was no stopping after that.

Soon they found themselves atop the small bed, Andy's head against the sheets he had dampened before but no longer giving a damn if they were even on _fire_. Neal settled himself on top of Andy's frame, nestling his hips between Andy's legs as he spread them obligingly, eager to return to kissing Neal, touching him. They acted on pure instinct now, learning through the months what caresses felt good to them, what they could do to give their partner the most pleasure; but never before did they have the luxury of a bed to explore each other in, a private room to lay undisturbed, spending all the time they wanted on those sensations they couldn't get enough of.

Neal's tongue prodded greedily into Andy's mouth, claiming his lips with a passionate bite, Andy responding to the kiss in more ways than one. There was possession and power in that kiss but also something deeper Neal had never felt before, the desire to make this last as long as possible with Andy, to savor every moment of their night. But Andy had much different motivations for the evening, his insistent erection pressing against Neal's belly, the tip wet with precum and rainwater, his hands slowly yet firmly pushing on Neal's shoulders, urging him downward. Whatever Andy silently requested, Neal always fulfilled, trailing a line of kisses and bites down the his chest until he reached his cock, running his lips teasingly along the shaft, his silver rings working like flint, sending sparks up Andy's spine. Neal kept his eyes on Andy's face as he took him into his mouth, licking down inch by inch, past all his typical reflexes, until the wiry, soft hairs at the base of Andy's groin tickled his lips. He wished Andy had been watching him, too, hoped to catch his stare once more, but Andy was far too busy holding back a yelp of pleasure at Neal's ministrations, arching his back and biting his lip enough to draw blood.

The deep, heady scent of Andy filled Neal's senses as he sucked, pulling away only long enough to tease the head with his tongue, forcing out a low whine from Andy's lips before plunging back down again, grunting in surprise at how his actions were making his own cock throb. He rolled his hips into the mattress, against Andy's thigh; anything to get some sort of contact, some touch. Detaching himself momentarily, his sudden halt sending Andy stuttering, his hips bucking into the air, Neal took only enough time to spit into his palm, coating his fingers before he resumed his station, this time with an index finger hovering over Andy's ass, silently asking.

"Oh fucking _God_ ," Andy moaned, throwing his head back against the mattress as Neal slowly worked his finger inside him, then two, curving them just so, in time with the bobbing of his head onto Andy's cock. He couldn't decide whether to tangle his fingers in the bedlinens or in Neal's hair, his hands moving everywhere as stars filled his vision, growing dangerously close to the edge. He didn't want that, and neither did Neal; Andy observed through heavy eyelids the way the light from the oil lamp, flickering but warm and true, played upon Neal's features, the determined resolve on his face, his hollowed cheeks. A wave of emotion foreign to Andy washed over him, yearning to caress Neal, experience every sensation imaginable with him...his gut coiled up into knots, threatening release, and God if he didn't get himself together _soon_...

A choked cry came from his mouth that Andy hadn't even been aware he was making, his eyes clenching shut, head thrown to the side. "Neal--" he breathed, the urgency in his voice making it clear Neal had to stop what he was doing, they both did, before their night ended much earlier than they desired.

That one needy, breathy sigh from Andy's lips was all Neal needed to hear, arousal surging in him like the flow of ocean tides, reaching his ears like a plea for more instead of an entreaty to stop. He removed himself from all contact with Andy's flesh in one swift motion, fingers retreating, palm brushing against the sensitive skin of his balls, head lifting as he rose to capture Andy's lips once more. "Andy..." he answered his lover's call, voice heavy with lust, all other thoughts besides pure want erased from his mind. As they kissed, Andy's mouth opening instinctively to invite Neal inside, their breaths mingling together in the warm room, Neal positioned himself against Andy's hole, prepared and waiting. There was no hesitation between them, no barriers to their passion, as Neal entered him, the pair muffling each other's moans only barely enough not to wake up the entire inn.

Fueled by instinct rather than experience, Andy's legs wrapped around Neal's frame, one thigh securely pressed against his side, the other aided by a sure grip up over Neal's shoulder, granting his lover full access to him, silently begging for more. And indeed, more he received, the heady, uncomfortable feeling of Neal's cock filling him giving way quickly to more pleasurable sensations, the uncontrollable pulsing of Neal's hips into his, making Andy shudder with desire. They remained still for a moment, both men taking in the power of that feeling, of being so close to each other in every way possible, Neal buried deep inside Andy, their mouths pressed against each other without moving; it was almost too beautiful, too perfect a moment to lose, the fleeting wish they could stay entangled like this forever passing between them, illuminated by lamplight.

But with one thrust, one sharp gasp of breath, the moment passed, and the room was full of kinetic movement once again. Their position allowed Neal to drive himself deep into Andy with each thrust, the tight walls around his cock urging him to move faster, harder...just keep _moving_. He settled into a pace that sent the minds of both men reeling, Neal emitting a low groan deep in his throat, Andy throwing his head back until the muscles in his neck were pulled taut, like the tense strings of barbed wire threaded throughout the open plain. Everything about Andy felt so amazing to Neal at that moment, from the tight heat all around him to the legs around his frame pulling him in deeper to Andy's body, to the short pants of hot breath against Neal's face, urging him on, demanding more. He didn't want to ever stop experiencing the sensations Andy was giving him, letting out an uncontrolled, pained sigh just at the thought. He wanted to feel this way forever.

Even then, when all that mattered to him in the world was in that room, lying underneath him, surrounding him and flooding all his senses, Neal felt with a desperate, sinking doubt that all this good couldn't last.

A sharp tug at his scalp brought him back to his senses, Andy once again threading his hands through Neal's hair, jolting him to attention. But instead of arching his head back, Andy held Neal's head still though the rest of his body moved with the power and determination of a steam engine, forcing Neal to hold his stare. The single lamp on the bedside table cast deep shadows across Andy's face, one side bathed in warm light, the other shrouded in darkness; beads of sweat on his brow mixed with remaining rainwater as they dripped in hot, salty droplets down to the sheets, Neal's own body covered in a sheen of sweat well-earned. But he couldn't tear his gaze away from Andy's eyes, one in the light illuminating the lustful spark usually hidden among the swaths of brown, one in darkness set deep with emotion that dared to venture past lust, beyond mere passion, to thoughts he only allowed himself in the dark.

They stared into each other's eyes, dark and mysterious brown meeting with cold, jaded blue, neither man making a sound, barely breathing, as Neal's hips rolled into Andy's, pushing himself in at a harrowing speed, causing the bed, if not the entire room, to shake. He felt the tension coiling in his gut, the now familiar feeling of coming close to his end at hand, but still Neal made no sound, didn't dare to tear his eyes away from Andy's. He wanted to lick every drop of sweat from Andy's brow, tasting the salt on his tongue and savoring the taste of Andy underneath it; he wanted to trace the small "o" of Andy's lips with his thumb, his mouth, the head of his cock, desiring everything from Andy, to touch him _everywhere._ He wanted to bathe in the soft lamplight until they burned; he wanted to be inside Andy, be _with_ him, until the downpour carried them away, drowned them both together in an epic flood.

He wanted...oh, God, he wanted _this_.

Neal came with a silent moan upon his lips, his frame trembling as he emptied himself into Andy, the wetness and warmth of his own cum only deepening the orgasm, strengthening its magnitude as it ripped through his body. He could barely move, barely breathe as his arms held up his weight, feeling like weighted sacks of lead, shaking as they desperately kept him from collapsing ungracefully atop his lover's frame. Every sense was heightened as he felt Andy's body tighten around his sensitive cock, felt Andy's own dick jerk in between their bodies, coating their bellies slick with cum, the other man's orgasm as silent and spectacular as his own.

No words needed to be said, nor could they even if either man had wanted to speak them. Something had changed, a feeling far different than the quick, desperate sexual satisfaction they usually found with one another; something neither of them dared to define with words, an entire conversation passing between their eyes. Neal scanned the familiar features of Andy's face, cheeks flushed and damp with perspiration now instead of rain, lips softly parted to pant shallow breaths of air; but his eyes were ever alert, reading Neal's face just as Neal was reading his, battling fatigue to decipher what he saw. For the first time in over a year since they had known each other, from that one serendipitous moment in the Tulsa marketplace that brought their paths together to this place, this bed, Neal couldn't tell what Andy was thinking, and Andy the same for Neal.

It was disquieting, to say the least, and as he slipped out of Andy his instincts reverted, refusing to acknowledge this had been any different than the other moments they spent in each other's embrace. He moved quickly to separate himself from Andy, observing their common custom to move away from each other as soon as the encounter was over, an assertion that their coupling was merely for physical gratification. Neal shifted his weight to one side, claiming a corner of the bed, but before he could depart a firm hand secured itself around his wrist, holding him there, making sure he did not leave.

He could never say what prompted the change, and Andy could never tell, but they had both felt it undeniably, the deep, satisfied fullness in their bones caused only by each other. Without a sound Andy pulled Neal back towards him, refusing to allow the other man to separate them for even one second. Their bodies collided once more into a tangle of sated limbs and slowing heartbeats, finally settling themselves in each other's arms side by side on the mattress, Andy's head tucked into the crook of Neal's neck, Neal's cheek gently pressed against Andy's brow.

It was a mess of positions, their bodies sticky from spunk and sweat, heated skin given barely enough time to recuperate before falling into the embrace. A peculiar, serene feeling swept over Neal then, his tired muscles relaxing into the mattress with Andy by his side, his lover's heartbeat replacing the lullaby he never heard as a child. As the oil lamp burned dimly yet true throughout the night, its flame lighting their window like a beacon against the never-ending storm, Neal fell soundly asleep, his own heart slowing to beat in time with Andy's, their deep sighs in tandem as if they breathed as one.


	18. Chapter 18

_"Mounted on my favorite horse, my...lariat near my hand, and my trusty guns in my belt...I felt I could defy the world." -- Nat Love in The Life and Adventures of Nat Love, 1907_

 

"We're not killers, Neal."

Neal frowned as he looked back over his shoulder, his gaze on the man who had just given them the deadly proposition but his attentions fully on the partner at his side. Ever the spokesman for the both of them, Andy had excused them from the card table in the back of the Texan saloon, claiming they had to discuss the details before making such a big decision. But from the first words Andy spoke, it seemed he had already made up his mind.

"He never said we would be doing the killing," Neal countered. Normally the tables would have been turned: Neal was more suspicious of others by nature and wouldn't care to do a favor for an old spinster even if it saved his soul. Andy, while no longer naive, was more generous by far, usually willing to share the outlaws' time with another, particularly if the reward was worth the risk. This time, however, there was no telling what the payoff would be, but the risk was undeniable.

Andy sighed, his eyes rolling to the ceiling; he never liked to argue with Neal, rare as it was. "He said he needed help tracking this lawman down," he recalled the conversation they just shared with the man still seated at their table, his hazel eyes staring hard at them from underneath a wide-brimmed hat, gaging their discussion. It seemed this David Cook was indeed very serious about their final answer. "And we're shit trackers. It's obvious this guy wants some firepower on his side; if we agree to help him, we could be looking at a war."

It had all started earlier in the day in the tiny saloon outside of Austin, a kindhearted acquaintance of theirs by the name of Bryan Jewett meeting them for a drink or three. Expecting just good liquor and friendly conversation, Neal and Andy had been startled to find another man joining their trio at the table, his face stern behind a short, sculpted beard, the worn laugh lines on his face cracked from disuse. He had wasted no time introducing himself as David Cook, a man on a dark, mysterious mission--one he needed the two outlaws to help complete.

"Just one lawman," David had informed them, their hushed tones drowned out from anyone else's ears but their own. "He might have some other men with him, I found he hires whoever's desperate enough for the money in each town." His jaw was set, his face grim as he laid out his plans, the history of his own pursuit of the lawman leading him from a massacre in Missouri to the borders of Austin, Texas. David had planned to make this town the lawman's last stop. "I need to find this man...and make him pay for what he's done."

Andy was right; this held all of the trappings of a deadly war, a shootout the likes of which had only been seen in nickel stories. And it wasn't their fight, nothing personal or even advantageous to their own interests holding them to David Cook's proposition. But where Andy reflected on the rational side of the argument, Neal focused on the emotional, his mind nearly made up for him when he saw the pained look in David's eyes when he spoke of the lawman's deeds, like his entire world had been shattered because of his man. Andy had left his family; he didn't know what it was like to lose them.

Neal took in a deep breath, inhaling instinctually on the cigarette pursed between his lips. "He needs help...he needs _our_ help." David's reputation didn't precede him; he wouldn't last a second in a gunfight with a seasoned lawman. Neal's legend, on the other hand, had erupted like a geyser in the past two years, his accuracy celebrated throughout the territories without yet ever having to lodge one of those accurate bullets inside a human body. "You heard his story, same as I did."

Responding with a nod, Andy's face paled slightly at the quick memory of David's tale. The two partners were no strangers to the atrocities of the West, knowing that a man's life was forefit the moment he stepped into the territories. They had even been the perpetrators of some of those villainous acts themselves, looting small stores blissfully and riding where they pleased, growing confident in their exploits as outlaws who could not be brought down. But never had they experienced something to the likes of what had happened to David, to his family. There had been a mix of sorrow and simmered rage in David's voice as he recalled it all, every horrifying detail he could bring to his lips. It would either convince Neal and Andy, through sympathy, guilt, and whatever sense of justice they had to join him, or it would scare them off, the crimes of the wayward lawman too gruesome for their blood.

But nothing short of a bull stampede had scared Neal Tiemann into running in his life. "He's going after this lawman, whether we're there to back him up or not. Which probably means he's gonna die out there if we don't help him." The burning embers on the end of his cigarette blazed with another breath, Neal learning long ago how to carry a full conversation without ever leaving the smoldering flame disturbed.

Andy took another look over his shoulder at the man: the resolve on David's face, his overwhelming need for revenge, would allow for only that outcome. He _had_ to kill, or be killed; there was no other option for him. One way or another, when David Cook found his target, a man was going to die. It was up to Andy and Neal to decide whether that death would be justified or tragic.

He turned back to his partner, who waited with patient, even breaths for Andy's response; if Neal won his side of the discussion, there wouldn't be much time in the immediate future for easy, calm breathing. But if Andy argued against it, Neal would leave the vengeful man to his own devices without so much as a parting word. He believed they should help David in whatever fashion he needed, but Neal's own knee-jerk emotions weren't worth damaging his partnership with Andy.

Two fingers came reaching up towards Neal's mouth, gingerly plucking the cigarette from between his lips as the pads of Andy's fingers grazed against the sensitive flesh briefly, as casual as a handshake. But the desire flaring in Neal's gut from the touch inferred something quite different. Andy placed the cigarette between his own lips, Neal already knowing his taste lingered among the packed tobacco leaves, and took a shallow drag more for effect than purpose. Neal toyed with the thought of snatching it back from him, the hint of a smirk on Andy's face almost daring him to do it, but before he could the cigarette was removed, the smirk was replaced with a serious expression, a decision on David's request.

"Alright," he said breezily, as if agreeing to share a drink or confirming the time of day, not conceding to follow a man they hardly knew in a showdown to the death. Neal thought with a strange affection that Andy never ceased to surprise him. "Let's do this."

"You sure?" Neal asked.

He had assumed Andy would not sympathize with David's tragedy or his near obsessive resolve to avenge his family, but he was wrong. He may have never suffered the sudden loss of parents or siblings but he knew what the fear of losing someone close to him was like. And he also knew he wouldn't ever rest until he slaughtered the man responsible for hurting those he cared about.

"I don't know if this feels...right to me yet," he admitted, the uneasy feeling that they were hurling themselves into a grudge they didn't belong in still lingering in his veins. But he also didn't feel right turning down David's proposal and handing him a death sentence in the same breath. The spark of determination in David's eyes went far beyond his desire for revenge, proving to Neal and Andy that he would take on the world for anything of value in his life. There was intelligence and cunning behind his eyes that were easy to overlook in the face of his pain. David Cook had all the potential in the world beyond his obsession to destroy this lawman; he could lead them to grand places, do great things...they just had to agree to follow.

"But it feels right to you...right?" Andy addressed Neal, pointing at him with the dwindling cigarette, the blue smoke like a screen, enveloping them in the saloon.

Though his trigger finger itched for a worthy cause to put it to good use, Neal's typical restlessness was overruled by his sympathy and interest in justice; he wanted to see David receive his due revenge more than he wanted the pure exhilaration of a gunfight. Neal had never killed before, but his talents most certainly called for it; perhaps all he was waiting for in life was the right reason to use them. He nodded, though Andy could see the assent in his eyes; the gesture was more for the desperate man who watched them seal their fate. "I want to trust him."

"And I trust _you_ ," Andy's simple response penetrated deep into Neal's psyche, past this one discussion and would remain with him for years to come. It had been unspoken between them in the past two years, but now on the eve of their transition from petty crimes to vigilante justice, it felt important to make the sentiment known. Andy and Neal trusted each other in every way mankind had and had not examined, from ensuring each other's happiness and well-being to entrusting their very lives, their bodies, to one another. And if one was to follow David Cook to this bitter showdown, to whatever end they might find themselves, so would the other.

Neal couldn't stop the smile from peeking through his rough exterior, eyes shining, as Andy raised his hand once more to return the cigarette to its rightful owner, Neal confident without moving a muscle that Andy would never burn him. "You know," he mumbled his musings between his lips, teeth deftly keeping a firm grip on the nub. "Lotsa times I wish I was in a gang. Or even just a crew." The laughs that erupted from both men startled David, on edge; even though he assumed they had agreed to help him, he hadn't considered the rest of their lives to be quite the laughing matter.

***

And join David Cook they did, discovering their hidden talents at intuition and teamwork immediately when cornering the lawman, who had seen the face of David's mother when he looked into his eyes, heard the screams of Andrew Cook in his memory when David spoke, reminding him of his grim deeds. Andy's assertion rang true that night, when they saw a man beg for mercy even when he knew he deserved none: he and Neal were not killers, not yet. In a rare case of justice well met in the wild West, David had brought his family's tormentor to his painful and messy end.

They were in it now, they supposed, and three well-thinking minds were better than two: when it was time to separate from David the moment simply never came, the three forming a fast bond as they fled the state and any friends of the lawman looking for retribution. David became a friend and a confidante, his easygoing charm and assertiveness making him a natural born leader of men. They rode through the West, avoiding the watchful eyes of sheriffs and homesteaders, living off the land and the small savings Neal and Andy still had from their storefront holdups.

Life was simple; life was good. And all three men knew it couldn't possibly last for long.

With an all-or-nothing attitude held only by men who had nothing more to lose, David made one more proposition to the pair once their cash stores had been depleted and the nature of how they obtained that cash came to light. There was an unsuspecting bank in the closest town by the Texan border, ripe for the picking; the banker was as green as they come and would be no different than the storekeepers Neal and Andy had robbed before. They had already skirted over the boundaries of the law, and they were no doubt wanted men from their work in Austin; now, David contended, it was time they earned their nefarious calling.

Every nerve in Neal's body was on edge the night before the bank heist, the first in a long, innumerable string that not even David could predict they'd accomplish. His muscles hummed with excitement as he paced around camp, the fire dying into embers and ash, leaving its memories of the three men's detailed plans to disappear into the night air. _This_ was the thrill Neal had always sought, working his way to experiencing life rather than just passing through it on an ambling horse to nowhere. He knew the rush of adrenaline pumping in his ears and coursing through his legs, his trigger finger, when he held up unassuming general stores, finding the thrill more valuable than any of the hauls he and Andy pulled in the territory; he could only imagine what it would feel like to rob a _bank_.

But his energy was also fueled by nerves, the anxiety of stepping up to a new level of criminal finally getting to him on its eve. This could prove to be a big haul for them, truly showing the world what they were made of; or it could be the first and last bank heist they commit, losing their nerve or miscalculating and leaving themselves in a hail of gunfire. Neal didn't need to pick up a newspaper to know the stories of outlaw gangs and their bloody ends, stories relayed to young boys as deterrents. If there was one thing Neal wanted more than anything from this heist, it was to avoid being someone else's poor excuse for a cautionary tale.

Saving his own skin and not becoming another ill-fated legend of the West weren't the only things Neal was concerned about. Employing a new tactic David gleaned from their old operations on storekeepers, the three men would be separated for the actual heist, Andy becoming far more effective when he had no apparent connections to the muscle of the gang. But that meant the young outlaw was on his own in the town, barely eighteen and still a novice when it came to gunslinging, and he wouldn't reunite with the others until the heat and panic died town. In over two years of partnership Neal had never been away from Andy, not even for one night, and it left him uneasy, with the cold and simple explanation to himself that he just didn't want to see Andy get hurt.

He could never admit to himself that he was scared, for the morning, for Andy...for the both of them.

It was only in the small hours before dawn, the darkness engulfing them in their bedrolls while they awaited their fate, that either man willingly let their fears show. With David quietly dozing on the far end of the campfire, Neal stared at the dark space beside him, knowing without sight that Andy filled that void. He could hear from the steady, shallow breaths that Neal wasn't the only one awake at camp, the younger man most probably staring into the blackness of night back at him, both men lying atop their separate bedrolls though the charged air between them made them feel together somehow. A warm breeze passed by, caressing Neal's face; if he willed it enough he imagined it was Andy's breath against his skin, the other man closer to him than he had ever been, instead of merely within arm's reach.

And an arm's reach it truly was: nearly one second after the breeze kissed his flesh Neal felt the warm, familiar touch of long fingers dancing against his cheek, reaching up to brush the shell of his ear before coming to rest against the tattoo along his neck, palm instinctively finding its home among the hidden patterns. It was a relief beyond all words to feel Andy's touch there, to know that on this night before their lives would change forever the one constant of their companionship was still intact.

With the hand lingering along Neal's flesh he let it draw him in closer, off of his own bedroll and leaning in towards Andy. They had transcended the need for words to communicate long ago, being able now to tell each other everything in just one look, one search into the other man's eyes. Now they knew their partnership was even beyond sight, Neal sensing Andy's anxiety just in his touch. The slightest brush of movement on Neal's skin, Andy's thumb caressing the flesh, and the sound of his shifting weight on the bedroll carried their raw emotions, their voices and breaths deemed unnecessary.

Crossing the extra inch of space between them Neal pressed his lips to Andy's, finding him even in the dark, instinct and desire his guides instead of sight and sound. There was deep passion in the kiss but it rang of everything but the physical, their desire far from sexual, expecting no more contact than the warmth on their lips, the mingling of their breaths. Neal needed the contact, the assurance, more than any physical pleasure that usually came from kissing Andy Skib. He needed to be certain they would see each other again, that the new and dangerous plan would not keep them separate forever. He needed to know Andy would always be there.

Neal did not push the kiss further, nor did Andy, their lips remaining closed against one another, no sly tongues asking for entrance or seductive hands coaxing out a moan. When they parted, Andy's hand still caressing the skin on Neal's neck, their eyes were as open as they could muster in the dark, trying to will light into existence where there was none to get one lasting look at one another before dawn ushered them into a new world. Neal's intentions were clear, spoken with mouths and lips but not with words, something desperate and pleading that Andy prayed with every ounce of his being he could accomplish.

_Be okay; I need you to be okay. Come back to me._

And just as quickly as it came, the moment passed, Neal returning to his bedroll, Andy's hand returning to his side, all the intimacy and care they held for each other stored, locked away in the memory of that split second. But Neal still held Andy's gaze in the darkness, unable to see even the outline of his face but knowing it was there all the same, _feeling_ him there. He wanted to always feel Andy's presence beside him, whether as a shadow and elusive lookout during a bank heist or with him in a passionate embrace as a lover. Wherever their courses in life would take them, Neal couldn't bear to be parted with Andy, never.

***

"Man, Dave better be getting laid right now."

Andy laughed drowsily, letting his skin cool between the sheets as he propped up his head on an elbow, watching Neal drag deeply on a cigarette. He could have used one himself, he mused, but at that moment his joints screamed for relief and rest, his body too delightfully sore to move. "Didn't know you were so invested in our partner's sex life," he joked, receiving a playful scowl from Neal in response.

"I'm just saying," he contended, letting out a breath of smoke that mingled in the windowless room with the heady, moist smell of sex. Two of Neal's favorite scents. "He's spending a shitload of time with Kelly, he better be getting something more out of it than a tour around this two-bit town."

But it was more than just a fast and lustful attraction between David and the young woman who cleaned out their pockets at poker their first night in town. They had only been riding with David a few months but from their very first heist it was clear he wore his heart upon his sleeve, emotions that rarely affected his decisions but were evident all the same. From the quirks of his mouth to the shining light in his eyes when he smiled and meant it, David's face was an open book when he was around those he felt comfortable with, confided in. And Neal and Andy could tell from the moment they entered the Breakaway Saloon that David was hopelessly smitten with Kelly Clarkson.

Their poker game with the lady of Burleson was their first indication: David couldn't take his eyes off her and it wasn't to mark her weaknesses or tells. Their second was that David never returned to the room they booked for the three of them that night, or any night thereafter. And the third was the liveliness in his demeanor, the spring in his step when the pair did see him in town, as if God himself had bestowed luck on a man who had seen more tragic events in his life than good. David was content when he was with Neal and Andy, remaining true to their partnership as their riches and infamy grew, but in the past three days he seemed genuinely _happy_ in the presence of Kelly. It was all well and good for the pair; Neal figured with a shrug that it was a boon to the entire gang if all three of them were sexually satisfied.

Andy's attentions perked up, his mind clearly on more than idle gossip about David and lounging in their afterglow. "Speaking of the town..." He lowered his voice to something conspirational, though the noise from the saloon's main parlor outside their door drowned out their words from any prying ears. Neal was only inches away from him--he could still feel the heat emanating from his flesh, recalling when that skin slid against his, slick with sweat and rough with the grainy Texas dust--but he wanted to keep his voice down, their plots of thieving and robbery as strangely intimate as lovers' pillow talk. "Took my own tour this morning. Found out some very useful information."

As Neal's eyebrows raised in interest, the unattended ashes at the butt of his cigarette curling into grey stains on the bedlinens, Andy relayed what he had learned throughout the day, his honed instincts ringing true even when they weren't officially on a job. The bank, much like the town of Burleson itself, found its downfall in its blind, small-town trust: a mix of confidence and naivete, which a healthy portion of neglect, set up the perfect equation for a mismanaged bank, ripe for the picking.

Andy's face lit up as he described the building's weaknesses and the information he had gleaned. He had taken his role as informant to an entirely new level, reveling in his ability to hide among the townspeople in plain sight, a rustler in a rancher's saddle; a black wolf wading among the sheep, waiting for the right time for the slaughter. It was an excitement Neal rarely got to see from Andy anymore independent of David's presence, reminding him of the elation Andy felt as a teen when he passed through the Tulsa marketplace, undetected by everyone except Neal. He could have kissed that grinning mouth, stop the flow of words in lieu of breathy sighs and moans, but he decided against it, content just to watch Andy bask in his element, a slowly spreading smile on his face. They had all night for another round; there was no point in trading one pleasing moment for the other.

"You in?" he asked, the question rhetorical when it was directed towards Neal. He was always looking for a thrill, the next big reason his heartbeat thundered in his ears and his muscles moved with life-or-death urgency; when he came to bank heists Neal was always in. He flashed a grin, reaching over to ruffle a hand through Andy's hair, the benign and playful gesture melting into a softer touch, his hand lingering to smooth down the locks he had just disturbed.

"Always," Neal responded. "As long as Dave's in."

The smile on Andy's face turned down into a distressed frown. David had never said no to a heist before, but in Burleson Andy was having his doubts. "You think?"

"Of course." Neal's answer was automatic, the connection they shared with David leading him to believe his answer was a given; but the expression on Andy's face made him second-guess tradition. "Why...you reckon he wouldn't?"

It wasn't typical for any of the three outlaws to doubt one another. But, Andy reconsidered with a deep sigh, this wasn't the typical course of things; it wasn't in every town that David Cook seemed to be falling in love. "I don't know." He tried to concentrate on the business at hand and not on _Neal's_ hand, which refused to remove itself from Andy's person, fingertips now playing along his jaw. "He sure seems to like it here...sure likes Kelly, anyway."

Neal gave a start. "He rides with us because we're his _friends_ ," he asserted, denying the question that had not been asked: if David's devotion to them was as strong as theirs was to him.

The tone in Neal's voice didn't faze Andy, nor did the smell of burned paper when Neal leaned over with his free hand and stubbed out the smoldering cigarette against the inn's shabby wallpaper. He knew intimately every one of Neal's moods, and more importantly, exactly how to quell them. "But he robs banks," he replied in a voice as peaceful as Neal's was defensive. "Because he's got nothing else left."

Swallowing a deep gulp of doubt that Andy could feel even from the other side of the bed, Neal asked the question he didn't want to admit, the atmosphere of the room turning very quickly from businesslike to something far more personal. "Well, what about us?" He watched the Adam's apple bob in Andy's throat as he stroked its length with a calloused thumb, Andy's eyes still closed, focusing on the pleasure of the warm touch despite himself. "Are we doing this 'cause we got nothing else?"

"No," Andy breathed, the answer automatic. The skin on his brow furrowed, the curves of his mouth turning down; he liked and respected David without any doubt, but what they had was nothing like his life at all. "We're different..."

Materially they had no more than David, the clothes strewn about the room and the money lining their pockets the only significant possessions to either man's name. All they had was each other, no sweethearts or loving hometowns to call their own. But despite it all, Neal never felt like he was left wanting; he felt he rather liked the arrangement.

With a surge of desire washing over him that simply couldn't be avoided, Neal leaned over towards Andy's side of the mattress, his breath lingering hotly against the shell of Andy's ear. "Tell me," he rasped, voice suddenly demanding and lustful, catching Andy delightfully off guard. The hand that worked at his jaw and neck swooped down over the planes of Andy's body, fingers grazing his ribcage like scales on a stringed fiddle, and putting itself to much better use in regions due south. A growl in the back of Neal's throat brought out a shuddering breath from Andy's lips, parted in the surprise of their sudden closeness.

Andy felt the brush of warm fingers against his flesh, running lower on his body until Neal's hand wrapped around his cock, bringing it to attention. He supposed they were ready for another round, after all. "He never wanted to be an outlaw," he explained, after a brief crisis of conscience over defying the request or facing the awkwardness of talking about David while Neal's hand was on his dick. Not the biggest turn-on for either of them. "He was thrown into this life. But we..." Neal gave a twist as he brought his hand in on the upstroke, thumb toying with the head like a tongue, lapping at Andy's precum. Quite a way to ruin his concentration; holding in a whimper, Andy's voice went low, his own hand reaching out towards Neal's chest, claiming a nipple between his fingers. "...We came willingly."

A soft nip on his earlobe punctuated the thought, the period on a parchment where the pen's nib dug too deep, leaving an imperfect and indelible scar. No one had ever forced the two men on the road and into general stores and bank vaults; no one jammed the guns in their hands and forced them to shoot. For David, falling head over heels for Kelly Clarkson could very well spell the end of his days wandering the open plain, but for Neal and Andy, the road was theirs; the road was always theirs.

Neal pulled back slightly, only enough to look Andy in the eyes, heads resting on the same pillow, lips nearly close enough to touch. His vision was filled with Andy's dark brown eyes, looking into Neal's and searching just as he was, the air between them suddenly very thick with more than just sexual desire. The movement of his hand slowed to a lazy stroke, more intent on watching Andy breathe shallow pants in and out with the rhythm of his wrist than making sure they both came willingly again.

"That's us, ain't it," he said with a smirk, watching the corners of Andy's crinkle pleasantly into a smile of his own. "Choosin' a life with no responsibilities, no regrets. Nothing to tie us down." The hand pressed against Neal's chest began to snake around his waist, Andy pulling their bodies in closer together, the tortuously slow pace on his cock making him ache for more contact. "Riding where we want, doing what we please..."

"I'd really like it if you do what I please a little _faster_ ," Andy muttered, his hips rolling up into Neal's touch.

Just to spite his eager bedfellow, Neal took an even slower pace, drawing out a low whine of protest from Andy's lips. He was quite ready for another round, his hips moving in time with Andy's, a slow grind that was teasing his own half-hard cock as much as Andy's; but he felt no rush, David's continued absence from the inn room emboldening them to take their time, unafraid of detection. Considering the string of looted banks they left in their wake, being found in the same bed together was the least of their troubles.

"This is what you want?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper, layered above the much louder sounds streaming in through the door. It was a question and a statement all at the same time, Neal too confident in their partnership to ask Andy outright, but not certain enough for his voice not to turn up at the end, like the ending flourish to a signature, the last, harmonizing chords of a sonata. There had been so much potential, so much more security in Andy's future than what he had opted for as a teen, a life of wealth and comfort instead of uncertainty and danger. It became clear now that David had found his Kelly, that he longed for a future of home-cooked meals and hearthstones, of family portraits on the mantle and babies in their bunting, reclaiming the sense of family he had lost. Neal knew his desires differed greatly from a white picket fence and a pot roast in the oven, but he couldn't in all certainly speak for Andy.

His teasingly slow ministrations, however, kept Andy's train of thought decidedly on a different track. "Want _more,_ " he beseeched, his hand gripping Neal's hipbone, knuckles white, daring him to do something about it. "But fuck you, Tiemann, if you expect me to beg..."

"I mean it," Neal insisted, eyes never wavering off of Andy's face, the strokes of his hand coming to a patient stop as Andy's playful disapproval simmered down to recognize the seriousness in his voice.

All was quiet in that one moment, the din of the crowd in the saloon falling away to a faint and distant buzz as Neal waited for his response. It was never asked of Andy before, not even by his own conscience, both men preferring to let their actions speak for themselves. He was _here_ after all, wasn't he? David's fate with the outlaws, particularly this next heist in the hometown of the girl he fell in love with, was under question, but in nearly three years Andy's resolve never faltered, never even wavered. Not so long as he was with Neal.

A slow, warm smile spread across his face, peeking at the corners at first and then widening. Neal just needed to hear it, he recognized; he needed to be assured that he wasn't alone in his life-long quest to make the whole West his home. And he wasn't alone. But if the sharpshooter was going to play games tonight, so was he. "I go where my horse goes," he compromised, eyes brightening along with his smile as he watched the smirk on Neal's face, anticipating his answer. "And she seems to take a shine to you. So...I guess you're stuck with me."

Neal couldn't help but laugh, breaking their stare and the atmosphere in the room that had grown from intimate to tense and back again. Much to Andy's satisfaction he began moving his hand again, stroking with a new vigor along the shaft and twisting at the head, causing Andy's hips to squirm. "Reckon I am," he said, shifting his weight until he situated himself over Andy's frame, hovering over like a promise, the smirk going sly. "Guess we'll just have to make the most of that situation, then."

***

"It's _fine_."

Neal took another bite of the salted pork, chewing the sizable chunk animatedly in his mouth, hoping it would indicate to Andy that he wasn't aiming to talk. No such luck.

"It'll be _fine_ , Neal," he repeated, ignoring the feigned indifference Neal attempted to show in the shrug of his shoulders. He had known him far too long not to realize when Neal was hiding things. Andy clenched his jaw when he met silence, the older man staring straight ahead towards the blazing light of the fire. If David were around to watch the scene unfold he would have said that they bicker like an old married couple.

But David wasn't awake, and neither were Kyle or Joey, the outlaws well aware they had a bank to rob the next morning that would require all their rest and concentration. Neal should have joined them, the others depending tomorrow on his quick draw and infallible aim; Andy should have left the camp ages ago, returning to his rented room at the Lambert Inn and his own role, playing the part and maintaining his alibi. But instead here they both were, reluctant to leave the warm comfort of the campfire; reluctant to leave each other.

But returning to town was sounding better with each passing moment; Andy was quickly losing patience with the Dr.'s stubbornness. " _You're_ the one who brought it up, don't act like I started this--"

"Well _you_ were the one who mentioned the damn gangbusters law in town," Neal shot back, the malice in his voice not intended for Andy but it had felt that way all the same. Andy mentioned it during their planning session earlier in the night, an egocentric sheriff and his overeager deputy a potential obstacle between the Kings and their cash. The outlaws had dealt with men of the law before, but Andy described them in his observations to be a dangerous liability. Two against five were no odds at all; but Neal didn't feel comfortable allowing Andy to make those odds two against one.

Heaving a deep sigh, Andy rested his hands on his hips, watching Neal self-consciously kick an errant ember back into the fire, uneasy with admitting his doubts even to the other man. "I don't think they'll be a real problem," Andy contended; he had caught sight of the deputy during his stay in Hope and saw his resolve overstepped his abilities. He was sure if it came down to a gunfight, his bark would be worse than his bite. But Andy had no problem taking the lawman down, ability or not, if the situation got dicey for the Kings. "And if they are...I'll take care of them."

"But what if _they_ take care of _you_?" Vulnerability wasn't something Neal revealed often, the legend of the fearless, confident Dr. preceding him. But his tone wavered, his impenetrable front faltered; he was worried for Andy, and it was only to Andy that he could show it.

Where Neal displayed concern, however, Andy saw as a challenge, a doubt in his own skills. His left hand balled into a fist in frustration, the right itching to retrieve the gun in his holster and show Neal there was no doubt in his gunfighting acumen--the skills that the sharpshooter himself had taught him. "I might not knock down bank doors and shove guns in people's faces," he said on impulse, the inferred remark inflaming his resentment. His job might have been different from Neal's but it was just as vital, dammit, and he wasn't going to allow Neal to treat him so green. "But I'm more than able to handle myself. You, out of everyone, should know that."

Eight years of holding his own in the Kings, getting into his fair share of gunfights and always ready when there was trouble; Andy had earned the respected title of being a formidable gunman. Neal knew he was no pushover, bearing witness to nearly every shot of Andy's that reached its home, every body the shadow of the Kings had put into the ground. But this wasn't about his skill with a revolver: this, Andy realized as Neal met his gaze, the flickering firelight illuminating the worry in his ice blue eyes, had very little to do with what Andy was able to do at all.

"I'm just sayin'," Neal repeated glumly, a pessimistic attitude he never showed to the others, only to Andy, who understood his doubts best; it took him a moment of reflection sometimes, but Andy always understood him. "Just...watch your ass, alright? I don't like this town; something doesn't feel right."

He shook his head to ward away the doubts, breaking eye contact with Andy, his gaze instinctively returning to the blaze of the fire. He was being stupid, he supposed, worrying over just a thought and a feeling, when all the odds proved to Neal the Kings were stronger than ever. And if he was worried about anyone's ass it should have been his own, his role leaving him far more open to danger than Andy. His instincts were rarely wrong but even Neal understood his rational judgments were biased when it came to Andy Skib's well-being.

A hand reached out towards Neal, fingers just grazing his wrist, making the light hairs on his entire forearm stand on end. Andy's skin was cold as it touched Neal's, but placed together they warmed each other, at their most effective when working together. It caught Neal's breath in his throat and brought his eyes back up to Andy's, a sympathetic smile on the other man's face that warmed him far faster than the touch. It didn't reassure Neal completely, but the gesture, and a touch they would only allow themselves when no one else was around, was certainly appreciated.

"It's going to be fine, Neal," he repeated. "There's nothing here we haven't faced before. Believe me, Hope is just another town; it'll go down like all the others."

***

That was the last time he had seen Andy; more than two days ago now, and Neal felt every moment like it was an eternity.

All his memories came rushing back, assaulting him, wounding him with such emotion Neal nearly doubled over from it, clutching his gut, like it was he who had been shot. It had been hours since he had first settled in front of the fire, barely moving, the glowing embers of the blaze left to dwindle and die now overshadowed by the ever-brightening hues of dawn. Neal had stayed there all night, battling and embracing his memories all at once, wanting to hold them to his chest and cherish them like intangible gold, while at the same time wanting to push them away, hide from them and escape the glaring truth he had been blind to for too, too long.

With his own trembling hand he touched his wrist, fingers feathering against the same skin Andy had caressed two nights ago; the last time they had touched. Neal closed his eyes, wishing it was his touch instead, wanting more than anything to have that night back, that moment, before Andy left for Hope and his world fell apart.

Eight years and he had never considered it, the bond between them known without thinking, kisses and touches enjoyed but never evaluated. What he and Andy shared simply _was_ , and it had never been discussed, lest they ruin it altogether; but now Neal realized just leaving it at that wasn't nearly enough. Not to fill the emptiness growing in his chest; not to dissolve the lump in his throat making it hard to breathe.

He was in love with Andy; deep and desperate, loved him more than anything he could shoot or steal. And now, it may have been too late.

Neal didn't know how long he had felt this way and never acknowledged it, when stolen kisses and heated encounters of skin upon skin became more than a mutual need for physical release; he didn't know how long he had tried to fool himself into thinking he never cared. But fool himself he did, his hands now realizing the value of the cherished flesh they had caressed, the body that had lain next to his for so long. The deep-set, expressive brown eyes that always saw the true man behind the intimidating tabloid legends; the smile, subtle and genuine, spread across Andy's face that Neal could never fail to reflect on his own. Every moment of Neal's past he wanted to remember held Andy at its core, and he wanted every moment of his future with him as well.

The storm had ceased its murderous downpour over the New Mexican desert sometime in the night but the ominous clouds still lingered, casting a dark, sinister gray sky over the horizon; the skies simply had no more rain to shed. There was no sun to be seen but it was still undeniably dawn, an entire night spent staring, ruminating and waiting; now it was time for action. He had no idea what David's plan would be but Neal resolved he would follow it to its end, to _their_ end, if it was their best chance of bringing Andy back alive.

He couldn't lose him now, Neal thought, his grip on his arm tightening, trying in vain to focus his pain on anything else but his heart. Not when he just realized how much he had to lose.

"I _have_ to get him back," he whispered to himself, his closed eyes blind to the outlaw who witnessed his turmoil, David making a promise to himself on the spot that he would do everything in one man's power to bring them together again.


	19. Chapter 19

_"It was all for you. I did not think this would happen." - Henry Newton Brown in a letter to his wife, before being lynched for murder and robbery_

 

Blood. It was all Kyle saw drenching the landscape...so much blood.

He lay helpless and trapped under the weight of his beloved, mutilated horse, unable to prevent the bloodshed he witnessed before him, powerless to even shield his eyes from the carnage. Kyle looked at the streets of Hope littered with bodies of friends and strangers alike, of allies, enemies and lovers, and his mind relayed back to where it all went terribly wrong.

The Kings's plan had been to ride close to Hope and assess the situation, with the lingering suspicion that their conscientious leader had no real plan at all. They left at daybreak and reached the town's borders at an impatient trot of their mounts' hooves, the rolling, ominous gray clouds overhead blocking out all remnants of the sun. Their ride was a silent one, David's eyes always trained on the horizon, Neal's jaw squarely set and clenched, both their minds on only one goal: to rescue their fallen partner in crime.

As Hope came into view, the three men saw that a rescue was no longer possible.

A sturdy juniper tree on the outskirts of town told the story in glaring, horrific detail: a taut rope dangled from its highest, gnarled branch, swaying gently in the dying breezes of last night's storm, the man attached to its end hanging limply, reduced to little more than a shadow.

Kyle's breath caught in his throat as he resisted the urge to run; he turned his head and retched instead, frighteningly aware that the first dead body he ever witnessed as an outlaw was one of his close friends. Andy's hands were bound behind his back, his right arm jutting out at a strange angle, as if twisting away from the rest of his body in pain at the last moments of life. His head strained out of an ill-fitting knot in the length of rope, the curve of the noose digging into the flesh underneath his chin, purplish welts blooming there from the pressure. His stringy, unwashed long hair hid his face from view, but there was no mistaking the man hanging in the air, the justice of a sheriff or the vengeance of an angry mob coming to its due.

The youngest member of their gang couldn't bear to look any longer, but quite different emotions ran deep through his companions. "No!!" shouted David, a horrific, guttural sound, his face contorting in grief and rage. He was supposed to save him...he was supposed to get them all out alive. Hot tears sprung uncontrollably from his eyes, blurring his vision as he drew his revolver from its holster. He failed him, David thought tragically, spurring Sugarfoot into action, blindly galloping towards town with no plan, and no reason to formulate one. He failed them all.

"Andy!" he continued to shout, his mournful screams pierced through the silent town, the outlaw throwing caution to the depths of hell as he raged, no longer caring if his voice roused the people from their safe little homes in their safe little town. "Andy!"

 _Let them come,_ he thought grimly as he cocked his gun with the knuckle of his thumb. The Kings were no longer there for a rescue; they were there for vengeance.

Neal reacted with much less commotion but no less feeling; he was as unmoving as a statue upon his mount at the sight of Andy, so still he could not even bring himself to breathe. But in the next second stillness turned to raw action, silent and instinctive, as he drew his gun and fired in one swift motion, the bullet finding its mark and ripping through the rope's knot at the branch. Instantly Andy fell to the ground in a heap, Neal already digging his heels into Sixx's sides, urging him at full speed towards the fallen man, his mind refusing to dwell on the probability that there would be no life left in Andy's body when he arrived.

All that went through Neal's mind at that moment was he had to get to Andy, no matter what. He had to get to him.

Almost following his own instincts and not those of his rider, Gangles went to follow in the hoofprints of Sixx and Sugarfoot, galloping towards Hope without any sense of what could or might happen next. Kyle was propelled against his own will, his body still in shock, unable to stop Gangles or do much of anything but grip the reins, holding on for his life.

Neal reached Andy first, dismounting hastily, nearly throwing himself off his horse to be by his side. Immediately he wrenched the noose from Andy's throat, the Dr.'s strong, stoic face a sharp contrast to the emotions coursing through him. David rode up beside them, gun at the ready, torn between watching the surrounding area for threats and staring down at his best friends, one pulling the other's lifeless body into a tight embrace, Neal burying his face in the crook of Andy's neck, fingers digging into the bloodstained fabric of his shirt.

It was in that one moment of weakness, of blind emotion and remorse when David looked down at the tragedy before him, that fate grasped the upper hand and sent a bullet through David Cook's flesh.

Gangles reared up on his hind legs at the sound of gunfire nearby, jostling Kyle in his saddle and forcing the young man to take control of his mount. He watched in horror from his distance as the bullet pierced David's thigh, ripping through muscle and bone and finding an exit out the other side, penetrating Sugarfoot's flank. The injured horse gave a shriek as it felt the pain long before her master, bucking and running for safety. Only when David, gripping his gun in one hand and holding onto his thigh in the other, tumbled off Sugarfoot's back and landed in the muddy street did Kyle see anguish on the outlaw's face, eyes shut tight and teeth clenched in pain.

It occurred to them both at the same time, leader and disciple, teacher, student, and friends, that the Kings rode directly into an ambush.

David scrambled to his feet immediately, the pain in his thigh overlooked in the face of his survival instinct, the blood flowing from the wound and coating his fingers ignored. He took one second to gain his bearings, his trusted horse abandoning him out of panic, his men under siege. He looked around the empty streets, assessing the dangers of an unseen enemy, and then with a cruel decisiveness Kyle had never seen before in him David raised his revolver and fired into a building, the sound of the gunshot followed by a tinkling of shattered glass and the faint yet unmistakable grunt of a man being shot dead.

With their safehouse no longer safe, the door of the Lambert Inn burst open, people teeming out in a panic, some men with guns drawn, others looking to flee and spare their lives. David discriminated against no one, shooting down both the fearful and the brave with thoughts only of what the Kings had lost, of what that town had taken from them. His bullets hit one man squarely in the forehead as he fled, running clear through the mole on his face like a bullseye, and another man sporting a pistol but not adept enough to shoot it, his blood soon running in rivers along the cherry blossoms tattooed onto his forearm and into the mud.

Kyle could no longer stand by and watch as his friends and partners were ambushed; he spurred Gangles on as he unholstered the twin pistols at his sides, knowing this time he could not save the Kings with a mere stampede. With a resounding battle cry he did not even know he had in him, Kyle rushed towards the town, aiming to situate himself between where David stood ground, and the base of the juniper tree where Neal and Andy lay. He mustered all of the training given to him by their fallen partner, all of the adrenaline and guts he could gather within himself, as he opened fire.

He killed his first man that day, watched his bullet rip through the luxurious fabric of a suit jacket as it struck home in a man's chest, his only consolation for watching his victim's blue-gray eyes close forever was that he had saved David from a similar fate. With a grim, empty satisfaction Kyle saw the lifeblood drain out of him, forming a pool around his tall, imposing frame and matting in his blue-black hair; the young man was too morbidly entranced by his own handiwork to see the figure creeping from the back alley of the inn, raising a revolver to his sightline, undetected by the rampaging outlaws, and fired a round directly at Kyle.

Only a slight shift of his weight by chance saved Kyle's life; Gangles re-situated himself with the intuitiveness of his rider's movements, only to be unwittingly betrayed by a bullet meant for his owner. The shot that only seconds before would have pierced Kyle's heart went into Gangles's muzzle, the horse shrieking in pain before rearing up in one last burst of panicked life. Startled by the shot, Kyle had no time to pull on the reins or steady himself, the massive and loyal beast underneath him suddenly falling away as Kyle hit the ground face-down with a sickening _thud_. He tried to scramble away but there was no time, not even a second to save himself, as his beloved Gangles let out his last breath, his useless legs crippling under the dead weight, and toppled over onto Kyle.

Pain more excruciating than he had ever experienced in his young life coursed through his body like a locomotive, the horse's unforgiving corpse shattering the bones in his legs on impact, pinning him to the ground. There was no escaping this fate, no more thoughts of running or riding away from danger, his legs immobile and useless, the horse he had cared for since a foal, watched his very birth, lying dead atop him. Kyle had no time to mourn his Gangles or dwell on the crushing pain that threatened to make him lose consciousness with every passing second; his friends were still in danger, and so was he. The bullet that had caused this must have come from somewhere the outlaws weren't looking: through eyesight blurred by the blunt, monstrous pain in his legs, Kyle tried to find the culprit, his hands still gripping the pistols, his body in some self-surviving way knowing he had to kill to stay alive. But his senses were flooded with all of the bloodshed, the smell of sticky, hot blood mixing with the muddy ground entering his nostrils, the feel of his own blood beginning to pool underneath him. He couldn't focus on a clear shot, couldn't tear his mind away from the terrible sensations; Kyle thought this was truly the end.

But suddenly a figure rose above him, using the dead horse's body both as a shield and a pedestal, a guttural warcry pierced through the air, striking fear into the hearts of all within earshot. Straining to identify the man, Kyle fought back waves of nauseating pain as he looked up, shocked at the sight before him.

Neal stood poised on the Kings's battlefield, his jaw jutted out in a carnal sneer, a revolver in each of his deadly hands--one Andy's, one his own. His chest heaving with deep, angry pants, his cold blue eyes scanned the townscape, his hands soon following, his fingers heavy on their triggers. A dark, wet spot stained his left shoulder, spreading along his shirt down to the elbow, someone's lucky shot grazing the sharpshooter's skin and effective only in making him madder. Fueled purely by his rage, Neal surveyed Hope, this useless, underestimated shithole of a town that aimed to be the great outlaw gang's undoing, and vowed to take his revenge on every living soul that came within range of his bullets. The Dr. would provide no mercy here.

This town took someone precious from him, strung him up and left him to die unloved and alone on the barren branch of a juniper tree. Neal was going to make them all pay.

Like an unstoppable railroad train Neal advanced on the crowd outside the Lambert Inn, shooting off the guns in each hand with extreme prejudice and no regard for innocents caught in the crossfire; to him, every life in Hope was to blame for the Kings's loss, for his loss, and everyone was accountable for his punishment. Each of the bullets he fired found a different target, a different victim falling to the ground with each pull of the triggers. He jerked to the side and caught the lone gunman lingering in the alley of the inn, the bullet finding home in the short man's throat where on a taller man it would have reached his chest, blood spurting from the wound like a fountain as he fell. Neal kept charging, a one-man battalion against the town that tore his heart from his body, refusing to stop even when more bullets riddled his frame, Kyle helpless to watch the bullets reach their mark over and over again.

 _How can they stop him,_ Kyle thought with a heaviness in his chest, his voice surely screaming over the sound of gunfire though he could hardly hear anything but his heart thundering in his ears. _Destroying them's the only thing he has left._

He managed to seek his revenge upon eight of the unfortunate people of Hope, discovering far too late the town's namesake held nothing but an empty promise for all. But the town also took from Neal what it sacrificed, bullets slicing through his skin, tearing at both his body and his willpower, a sixth shot piercing his heart and finally bringing the stubborn sharpshooter to his knees. He teetered on his feet, the bullets blazing at a nonstop pace from his guns finally ceasing as his arms fell limply to his sides, swerving from the momentum of his moving body connecting with the shot. When he fell Kyle felt it in his throat, felt the gasp and the sob rise as Neal's body sank into the muddy ground. His head towards Kyle, ice blue eyes open, staring but no longer seeing, Neal's face was stained with a mix of tears and blood, both shed in rage and grief over his lost love.

Kyle couldn't move, couldn't even think after that, the gunfight still raging on around him blind to his eyes, deaf to his ears. His friends were dying around him, the men he had risked his life to follow, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He felt wetness on his cheeks and couldn't tell if it was sweat, tears or blood; it could have been all three. Kyle felt himself screaming but could not hear it, his mind focused on the all-too-vivid memories permeating his senses. The world only came rushing back in on him when he heard a familiar voice by his side, urging him in a desperate tone to move.

"Get out of here, kid!" It was David, revolver in hand, the intricate "AC" tooled into the gunmetal covered in the outlaw's own blood. He retreated to the carcass of the fallen horse in a hail of gunfire, the inn housing an unknown number of gunmen within its walls, shooting like cowards through windowpanes and the cracks of doors. His right arm lay heavy and dead at his side, the sleeve striped with streams of blood, and he limped heavily on his one good leg as he approached, finally collapsing inches from Kyle.

There was no hope for him, David thought, his eyesight growing red with blood loss and anger; no hope for Andy or for Neal, their destinies to die by the gun decided for them years ago, fate catching up with them in this tiny town they thought was harmless. The Kings would be dead and buried, scattered away like the desert sands. But David still held his hope in the kid, believed that at least one of them, the best of them, could get away. David couldn't live with himself if he knew he got Kyle Peek killed, not after the eager young man held such faith in him as their leader.

A shot from one of the top windows in the building came hurtling towards the once mighty outlaw and lodged itself in his belly, causing him to let out a yelp of pain, spitting up blood. If David's decisions did get Kyle killed, he wouldn't have to live with that guilt for long.

Kyle wished he could comply with his leader's orders, will himself away to somewhere safe, a place where they would all be whole and alive again, the great Kings once more. But his poor horse was shot dead, his legs crushed and useless underneath him, and there looked to be no escape from the barrage of bullets aimed towards the outlaws. David's call to retreat was a valiant and compassionate order but not one Kyle even had the hope of accomplishing. "I can't," he said; a new emotion washed over him, an odd, out of place sensation of calm, that stiffened his resolve. None of them could escape this fate and he resigned himself to it: for a short, glorious time, Kyle Peek lived like a King, and now, he would die like one. "I won't."

But David was resolute in his order to Kyle; his face cringed in pain, his one good arm clutching the fresh wound at his gut. "Get out, Kyle!" he screamed, using the young man's real name for the last time. His vision completely left him now, David knowing Kyle was still alive only by the sounds of his pained, panicked breathing over the gunfire. "While you still can! Get--out--"

Suddenly David slumped to the side, unable to hold up the weight of his body any longer; his eyes closed, a deep hazel in the gray morning light that so beautifully reflected the same eyes of the lost love in Texas he would leave behind. With one last shuddering breath all signs of struggle in his body ceased, and the once great leader of the Kings was dead.

"No!!" Kyle let out a wail, wishing he could reach his arms out towards David, straining to move and finding his body would give him nothing in return. He couldn't believe this was happening; he couldn't accept that they were dead, all of the Kings, not the fearless outlaw gang who made the West their own. Not when Neal and Andy cared for one another so much they would take on the world for each other; not when David still had Kelly waiting for him, both lovers longing for the moment he could come back to her. This wasn't the way their legend was supposed to end.

He took one scornful look at the carnage in front of the Lambert Inn, the facade of the old saloon splattered with the blood of its inhabitants. The Kings had taken a good deal of life out of Hope but the town stole more from them in turn, had stolen their very wills to go on. All this death...all this bloodshed, and no way to have stopped it. Kyle clenched his eyes shut as he wept for all of the dead that lay on their battlegrounds, outlaw and lawman alike, his mind and body resigning to the end. When he let out his last anguished scream he never even saw the last gunfighter take aim at his mangled, immobile body, and fire.

***

"No!"

Kyle awoke with a jerk, his hands immediately reaching up to shield his head from the phantom bullet. His mind was racing, skin drenched in a nervous sweat, his heart nearly beating out of his ribcage.

But his arms, they _moved_ ; his lungs still had air to breathe, to shout. And when he bolted up from his bedroll with a start, he discovered his legs were whole and unscathed, unharmed from the damage he had suffered in the dream.

 _A dream,_ he thought with a great sigh of relief, his eyes quickly scanning the area to find the remnants of their camp, and not a bloody end to a gunfight on the streets of Hope. _The shootings, the death--it was all a dream._

More like a nightmare, he considered, once Kyle regained his bearings and stopped shouting like a madman, heaving in gulps of air to try to calm his racing heart. A vision of a fate he would not wish upon his worst enemy, much less the men he considered to be his closest friends. When they had heard the news of Andy's arrest his subconscious had conjured up the worst scenario Kyle could ever imagine, the bloody decimation of the outlaw gang, dying in a blaze of gunfire the likes of which New Mexico, and perhaps even all the great West, had never seen. He knew it hadn't been real but it sure felt like it, the emotional and physical pain still so vivid he thought he could reach out and touch the blood, feel David and Neal's wounds as if they were a part of their living bodies.

Neither one of the outlaws acknowledged Kyle's frantic outburst from his sleep. David, face ashen and serious, seemed to have much more on his mind than Kyle's mental well-being. Neal had not even looked up from his place at the dying fire, his eyes wet and glassy from sleeplessness and something else Kyle had no hope of deciphering. Their concerns were spent on Andy, worrying and devising plans on how to get him back alive; Kyle, though at times proving quite the opposite, could take care of himself for the time being.

But as the dawn arose, revealing tired, gray storm clouds overhead, blocking out the sun, Kyle felt less and less reassured that his dream was only a nightmare and not a premonition, a dire, terrible prediction of things to come. David ordered with a stern tone for the camp to be cleared and the Kings to ride out from the ridge, without mentioning where they would ride or what lay ahead of them. Kyle performed his duties quickly and silently, avoiding the gazes of both men, worried they might see the reflections of his nightmare in his eyes, scared he himself would glance over at Neal or David and see their battle wounds, visions of their bloody, dead bodies haunting him now even when he stood awake and alert. He was relieved beyond measure to see his Gangles safe and sound, but even the gentle horse could tell Kyle was ill at ease; he snorted and shied away when Kyle approached and placed a hand on his muzzle in reassurance, instantly aware of the apprehension in the young man's touch. And when they embarked on their ride through a sodden, rain-soaked New Mexican landscape, Kyle felt the sense of dread so intensely it formed a lump in his throat, rendering him unable to speak without tears welling in his eyes.

Fearful of the images his dream provided, Kyle could not tell if the Kings rode out to rescue one of their own, or if they were riding to their very deaths.


	20. Chapter 20

_"No matter how justified a man may be in killing another, he never gets over it." - Henry Van Sickle, after killing Charles Brown in self-defense_

 

Adam placed his hands on his hips, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he mulled over the new information about Hope's prisoner. "Wow," he remarked, though Kris didn't think he sounded surprised at all. "You know, I _thought_ so; but Alli said she saw him making eyes at Ramiele." He shook his head, the glint from the polished metal buttons on his jacket glittering even in the drab, gray dawn of the morning. " _This_ is why she's never getting put into the business: no woman's intuition."

Normally Kris would have allowed Adam to ramble and digress from the subject, if only to listen to his voice just for a few seconds more in each day. But they had such little time to speak before the rest of the town awoke for their daily routines, and he had to avoid getting caught handing over information to anyone in town, especially the brothel owner, and especially in front of the sheriff's office. If any of those details managed to get caught upon the wind towards Sheriff Gokey's ears, it could prove to be disaster for all of them.

"Focus, Adam," he said with a sigh, making sure to keep his voice low to avoid any prying ears. Perhaps they _should_ have stayed inside the sheriff's office to have this conversation instead of sneaking behind it, but they had already been caught by a deceivingly perceptive prisoner, and Kris had no idea if Andy would even _want_ him revealing this secret to another soul...even if Adam was obviously of the same mind. "This is important."

An impatient cluck of Adam's tongue and a wave of his hand quelled Kris's worries he wasn't taking this seriously. On the contrary, Adam thought; if this plan eliminated the Lambert Inn's problems with the law he couldn't be more serious about it. "I know that," he said testily. "We're helping him get the hell out of here."

"And back to whoever's waiting for him," added Kris. That one flash of desperation and vulnerability Andy had showed in the jail cell that night endeared him to Kris, made him sympathize with the traveler's plight to return to his people, his love. Kris wasn't much for breaking laws--even Gokey's laws, rotten to their core--but if he were in the same situation, he would have prayed for any type of miracle to get him back to Adam in one piece.

A small, secret smile spread across Adam's face, blue gray eyes shining as he looked upon the deputy, whose passion for justice was only surpassed by his sentimental heart. If Adam had a say in the matter, the traveler would have been halfway to California by now, destroying Gokey's ambitions a pleasant side effect. He knew Kris would come around to the same decision eventually; he had just needed a push to get there.

"But first," Kris continued. "We've got to get word to his people. Make sure they know the situation." He took a deep breath, hesitant about the favor he was about to request. But this arrangement would benefit Adam as much as Kris, and there wasn't a soul in Hope he would trust more. "I need you to go out there for me, make sure we get this settled before we make any promises."

Adam's refined conduct expertly masked his surprise, an aghast expression nothing more than the quirk of an eyebrow and a glimmer in his eye. When he had returned to the sheriff's office to check on his lover and his charge, Adam wasn't expecting to be drafted into this plot. "Me?" he asked incredulously, fingers nervously fiddling with the long, sumptuous sleeves of his jacket, tarnishing the polished silver buttons with his touch. "If you haven't noticed, Kris, I'm not the law here, _you_ are. I can't even remotely pass for a lawman." Standing a full head and shoulders taller than his companion even without boots, Adam cut an imposing shadow along the New Mexican landscape, but he never used might or size as a method to his success. Not one for the long, grueling hours of gunfighting training, he hired bodyguards who were more than capable of maintaining order inside the Lambert Inn, and prided himself on the sharp decrease in violence within recent years. Adam was a businessman, not a diplomat or an executioner; he preferred to be a lover, not a fighter. And the clothes on his tall and impressive frame--intricately tooled calfskin boots, a perfectly tailored shirt and pants underneath his silver-studded duster, all dipped in the the same blue-black dye as his hair--showed from miles away he made much more than a lawman's salary.

"I think that could work in our favor." Kris was persistent, despite the fact that he knew Adam Lambert stuck out like a mountain spring in the barren desert; he had many months and more than enough instances to notice _everything_ about Adam. He hiked a thumb in the direction of the office's front door, indicating the wounded prisoner within. "It could just be that one of them shot him, but Andy doesn't seem too fond of lawmen. He's only giving me any notice because I saved his life." Kris shrugged, remembering to keep his voice low; if the gossiping residents of Hope typically tittered themselves into a frenzy over his feigned courtship with Brooke White, he couldn't even imagine what they would do with this information. "Maybe the people he's with feel the same way."

The deputy hadn't needed to work so hard to tease out Adam's assent, but it was a polite sign of respect for the other man; Kris knew that, so long as it was within his means, Adam would do anything for him. With a quick nod and a furrow of his brow--Kris would always tell when Adam devoted his full, serious attention to a topic, whether it be helping a man escape from jail, the future of his inn, or intently giving Kris the most pleasure he ever experienced from one man--Adam agreed to the meeting, the conspiracy complete.

"Andy said he'd give us their location once I talked it over with you," Kris continued, the shapes and shadows of Hope coming more into focus as the minutes passed, though any semblance of sun was blocked out by the heavy storm clouds that refused to budge. He wanted to get back into the sheriff's office as soon as possible, less concerned about a dramatic jailbreak from the unattended, wounded prisoner, than he was about prying eyes and ears noticing his whereabouts. It had only been one day since news broke out over the traveler's arrest; an innocent passer-by might consider Kris's presence as an invitation to gawk. "He's got a passphrase too he wants to tell you; something they all came up with, makes sure that his people know you're telling the truth."

Opening the door with a creak of iron joints wet and straining from the evening's storm, Adam and Kris were greeted by the sight of Andy's health progress, the traveler now up on his knees, one arm snaked around one of the iron bars of the cell, the other outstretched before him, fingers flexing tentatively. It was a marked improvement from the last time Adam laid eyes on the prisoner, his energy sapped, barely able to sit up against the back wall.

His mood had certainly improved as well: Andy's attentions remained engrossed with the meticulous movements of his right arm, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. It had been over a day since the shooting, the pain in his arm ebbing from unbearable to barely tolerable, and the traveler had decided to test its limits and see if the damage the bullet caused would be permanent.

"You're moving your arm!" Adam noted encouragingly, the first words spoken as the pair entered the one-room building, and the first words Adam had addressed to him since the day before, when the proposition was first approached.

Keeping his gaze on his arm, slowly extending each finger and bringing them back in again towards his palm to make a fist, Andy gave a low chuckle, physical strain evident in his voice. "That I am." He was pleased with his own progress, knowing his condition could have very easily taken a turn for the worst in the past two nights and he would have not been able to move at all. But the pain still resided in his right shoulder, the constant, stinging reminder of his injuries, and he was still rather weak from his body's continued efforts to heal, the arm holding onto the bars of the cell trembling from the exertion. It was progress but he wanted more; Andy wondered when his right arm would be strong enough to wield a gun again.

The deputy, however, noticed the newfound energy in the captive's legs, able to hold up his body weight to an extent, Andy's knees wobbly but secure. It was amazing, Kris thought, what one could will the body to accomplish when they had a reason to drive forward. "You planning on an escape there?" he joked.

Shooting Kris a wry, tight-lipped smile that indicated escaping might have only been prevented by his physical limitations, Andy played along, growing comfortable with his sympathetic jailer. "My goal for today," he deadpanned, accenting the impossibility of Kris's suggestion with a painful wince as he lowered himself back down to a seated position on the jail cell floor. "Is standing."

But as soon as the pain subsided in his joints Andy's face took on a serious expression, nodding his head towards Adam but his eyes squarely on the deputy. As friendly as he had become with the pair since his injury, Andy ensured them with his tone that it was nothing but business. "He in?"

Kris nodded, and imagined he could actually see the relief settle in Andy's shoulders, his goal of returning to his people one step closer. "I told him," he said, the deputy finding he didn't have much to do to convince Adam. The owner of the Lambert Inn had supported letting Andy go since the previous morning, purely to spite the sheriff, but now he saw the reasons for this escape were more personal than his own rivalry. "He knows what he's getting into."

Andy forced himself to control his reactions lest he give anything away to the pair; he knew fairly well these two hadn't the slightest clue what they were getting into. But it wouldn't be his place to set them straight, or they might back out of this agreement, never let Andy out of that cell; if he told them the truth about why he was in town they might hang him themselves. Kris believed there was someone special to Andy waiting for him outside of town, a man that he desperately needed to return to, and that was true enough, but certainly not the whole story. Andy's mouth fought to hide the smirk threatening to emerge; Neal was a whole lot more than just a man.

But before another word could be spoken Adam's face broke out in a grin, both lavicious and telling, and made Andy wonder just how much Kris had told him. "So," he asked brazenly, the daring and playfulness in his voice slathered on thick. "What's the safeword, loverboy?"

***

David didn't have a plan.

The entire night his mind had been a disaster of logic warring with emotion, of countless strategies conjured and dismissed because they weren't secure enough, their offenses not nearly strong enough for David's approval. The Kings, David specifically, had underestimated Hope ever since they laid eyes on their bank vault, and it had brought them here, walking the edge of a knife blade over Andy's capture. He wanted to make sure it wouldn't happen again; but in every plan he imagined he saw flaws, small specks of doubt that could easily fester and grow into fatal decisions. One choice he had made almost cost one of his men his life; he didn't want to decide upon another that would take more.

But he knew inaction wouldn't be acceptable to the rest of the Kings, most of all Neal, whose threat to desert David and Kyle and search for Andy on his own was the only thing David was sure would follow through. If David didn't devise a plan to get into Hope and get Andy out alive by morning, he knew the headstrong sharpshooter would make his own way to town without a lick of care for human life, even his own. The deadly serious look on Neal's face, more dire and emotionally wrought than David had ever seen him in their years of partnership, told him this was no idle ultimatum; that all the loyalty in the world Neal had for David and the Kings would mean nothing if David let Andy die.

These outlaws, these men of his that looked to David for leadership and strength...they depended upon him for this. More than anything now, David couldn't fail; he couldn't let them down.

"We ride out," were his curt orders after the gray, lifeless dawn broke over their heads, Kyle quickly nodding and scampering around camp in preparation for their move. Neal was still at his perch in front of the dead, cooling embers of the previous night's fire. His jaw was set, his hands wrung together tightly like a vise, but none of it held the vicious anger that coursed through his veins last night. His demeanor was solemn now, his hunched back and blue eyes fragile, so close to breaking, held together by willpower and something deeper, something that had not been there before. David made the order but couldn't look Neal in the eye; if he did, he feared, the sharpshooter would see through David's tough facade and know there was no substance to his plan.

And Kyle, the poor kid, wouldn't even look in David's direction, spooked by his own demons and silently worried that Hope would be the last ride for the Kings. If there were any power in his strength and will, David would not let that happen; as their leader he held a duty to the other men to keep them safe, and not ride them to their deaths. He held a particular responsibility for Kyle, the eager young ranch hand that had just wanted to experience some adventure in his life before it was too late; if it weren't for David's decision to welcome him as a member of the Kings he would be on that California ranch still, restless and bored but not in danger for his life. David was the one who brought Kyle to the life of an outlaw; he would make sure he came out of it alive.

Just _how_ he would accomplish any of this, however, he hadn't a clue.

Setting their horses at a steady, moderate pace, Neal refusing to travel any slower than a trot, the three men made their way towards Hope, David hoping he would at least have the authority to stop Neal from a rampaging search the moment they caught sight of the town. Jailbreaks were decidedly not bank robberies: the Kings did not hold the element of surprise here, and indeed they were the ones who were left to be surprised about the unassuming town, the agent among them known for gathering data the very one they had to retrieve.

They were about a mile away from the town's outskirts, the quaint storefronts and homesteads not yet visible over the horizon, when Kyle let out a whoop from behind David, giving him a start. He flashed back a stern look in the kid's direction, but his ire soon turned to perplexity as he watched a relieved smile spread on Kyle's face.

"The trees," he said enigmatically, pointing a finger towards a grove of juniper trees in the distance. "The trees are bare."

Squinting to make out the condition of the small grove's branches, David saw gnarled, knobby boughs curling from each trunk, the trees reaching up towards the skies like naked, desperate peoples praying to gods in the heavens. Why the trees suddenly fascinated the young outlaw, he had no idea. "Storm probably knocked off all the leaves last night," he replied, eager to get their attentions off of trees and back to the task at hand. Already Neal was restless from this diversion, his jaw set, his eagle eyes forever watching the horizon.

But this insignificant detail seemed to enliven Kyle, who was nearly bouncing in his saddle from inexplicable joy. "The trees are bare!" he exclaimed again, laughing to himself once he saw David's confused face and his reluctance to join in on the mad laughter. Whatever had struck Kyle's funny bone, David thought bemusedly, he reckoned it had picked a damn wrong time and place to do it.

"I don't think I'm ever gonna understand you, kid," he said. He was about to elaborate on his observation when he spotted a swift movement and a glint of metal in his peripheral vision; David turned to see Neal drawing his revolver with a steely gaze on the landscape, something out of the ordinary catching his eye. In another moment David saw it as well, a lone rider rising up from a dip in the horizon, previously undetected by the outlaws and coming closer. He held himself high and uncomfortably in the saddle, a man unaccustomed to long journeys on horseback; a town settler. Appearing to be alone, he went along confidently, seemingly unaware that the men he approached were dangerous and, as Neal had just proven, readily armed.

Realizing the sharpshooter was very willing in his state of mind to shoot first and ask questions later, David stayed his hand, not wanting to start off their morning with a murder. "He's coming from town," he observed, noting the path of the horse's muddy hoofsteps. "He might know something."

"And what if he shoots us first?" Neal sneered. Kyle unconsciously gripped the reins of his mount tighter in his hands, digging into the leather until his knuckles were white.

But David was adamant about leaving the man unharmed; anyone passing their way with news of the commotion in Hope was worth more to them alive than dead. And something about the approaching figure told David this man was no gunslinger, and the dull glints of metal he spied on the horizon weren't from any weapons. "He can see us just fine," he explained. "If he was going to shoot us, he'd have already done it." Neal obliged the outlaw's orders, but held onto his revolver regardless, refusing to take any more chances.

As the approaching figure came closer David's suspicions were confirmed: with his expensive, fine clothes and the well-groomed but rather scrawny horse he rode upon, it was clear this man was no gunslinger. Adorned with more baubles and shining gems than David had ever sent Kelly during their correspondence, the man had to have been on a mission from town; he wouldn't have survived one minute in the open plains wearing that finery and being so daring as to ride up to strangers. But his confidence faltered as he drew nearer, the gait of his horse slowing as the features of the Kings gradually came into his focus, particularly the drawn revolver of the Dr. laying at the ready stop his saddle horn.

It appeared this man from Hope expected to come by three unassuming, innocent travelers on his journey; he had expected wrong.

"Care to share your business 'round these parts, friend?" David asked once he was within earshot--and close enough to render escape impossible if the man tried anything heroic.

The stranger's blue-gray eyes, outlined with kohl along his lids, shifted from one outlaw to the next, fear sinking in with each second. "Holy shit," the realization dawned on him as his horse took a step back, anticipating his hesitation. "You--you're--"

"We know who we are," David interrupted sternly, holding up a hand behind him, a second warning to Neal not to raise his gun at the man. "But it'd be mighty helpful to know more about you."

David stared down the other man with an unflinching glare, the other outlaws equally as menacing; with a nervous gulp the newcomer looked at each man, sensing that escape was impossible. There was no other alternative but to tell the truth. "My name's Adam," he said, his tone tense but true, keeping a mindful watch on any sudden movements from the outlaws, particularly the Dr.'s trigger hand. "Adam Lambert. I'm coming from Hope..."

"You run the inn there." David narrowed his eyes, remembering the name Lambert as a passing detail in Andy's report on the town the night before their heist. It hadn't been a vital observation, the shadow of the Kings merely using it as a background on Hope and to boast about the pampered comfort he was lodging in while gathering his information. But now, that useless detail came full circle.

Startled by the identification, Adam's brow creased, his confusion overstepping his fear. "Yeah, that's my inn; have you stayed there?" he asked on instinct before shaking his head, common sense answering his own question. The Lambert Inn had been a breeding ground for outlaws and thieves in his father's day, but Adam had tried to eradicate the inn's violent reputation; apart from the sex for sale, the place was a veritable family establishment. "Of course you haven't stayed there, I would have noticed you--oh, damn..." He tripped over his words, a rarity for the innkeeper, but then again he very rarely came across murderous outlaws who had just days ago robbed the town's bank. Adam considered himself quite composed considering the circumstances.

Running a shaky hand through his hair, Adam changed his tactic, hopefully looking to get away from the three men and continue with his duties unscathed. "I need to get a message to someone," he said, aiming to target whatever sympathy an outlaw gang may have. "I won't be any trouble to you, I swear."

But the grim look on David's face sent a fearful chill down Adam's spine; today was not the day for the Kings's mercy. "We don't have time for pleasantries today, Lambert," he said, his disinterested tone masking a great urgency, the outlaw learning well how to hide the fact he was distressed. The Kings could use any information Adam could give them--and David had no qualms about extracting that from him using whatever means necessary--but without knowing how dire Andy's situation was in Hope, they didn't have much time to shoot the shit with the owner of an inn. 

Still Adam was firm in his resolve. "I'm looking for a group of men, they're supposed to be camped around here..." he explained, but trailed off as his mind worked, connecting supposed dead ends and useless details to come to a revelation. The Kings had cleaned out Hope's bank two days ago; they should have been miles away by now, eluding any posse scrounged up to capture them, not riding back towards the town they had robbed. And Andy's mysterious reluctance to reveal anything about himself to Adam or Kris, giving them only the barest information they asked for, had roused Adam's suspicions from the start that he was no simple traveler; a man sent by the rest of his group for supplies, Adam reevaluated, didn't spend three days staying at his inn to do it. Added to the fact that Andy set him on this very trail outside of Hope to find the group he rode with, the dubious proposition the prisoner gave to solve their problem of the pesky sheriff...

Adam's eyes widened as the realization dawned on him; he almost wanted to laugh if the situation hadn't been so terrifying. "No. Shit."

Now visibly bemused by the delay, David frowned, growing more impatient with the innkeeper by the moment. "I think it's time you--" he began, but Adam cut him off, in a stroke of mixed bravery and stupidity he thought he would never replicate.

"Wait." He held a hand up both as a sign of appeasement and diplomacy. If his hunches were correct, then the three men before him were going to want to hear what he had to say. "I have a message I'm supposed to give, from a man named Andy...and I think it's for you."

The name on Adam's lips struck shock into the three outlaws, their steely gazes momentarily lapsing to show their emotional reactions. The youngest of the three's jaw dropped open in surprise, while the blond maintaining the rear of the group tightened his grip on the revolver in his hand, a gesture that definitely gave Adam reservations about agreeing to this meeting. David faltered only slightly, his horse noticing the change in his stature and stomping restlessly on the ground; but his eyes gave everything away, a desperate recognition of the name Adam spoke that told the innkeeper he had found the right men.

"I don't believe you," was David's immediate response, a trigger based more on emotion than his controlled, well-balanced routine as leader. He was a skeptic until situations were proven otherwise, and he wasn't going to believe Adam Lambert just on his word; they had taken the town at face value once before, and it only left them with a captured partner and a wounded spirit.

A tiny smile caught the corners of Adam's mouth. "He said you'd say that." The wariness of letting outsiders know about himself and his group, the precautions Andy relayed to Adam before he left that morning...it was all glaringly obvious to Adam now, he could almost smack himself for not paying attention to the clues beforehand. Though Hope's prisoner _could_ have given Adam little more warning about the nature of his friends' career...

The unmistakable _click_ of a revolver's hammer snapped Adam's mind back to the present with dangerous force; looking up, he found himself staring down the barrel belonging to the most feared gun in the West, cocked and ready at David Cook's command. This was  not expected. "You've got five seconds," David ordered, any spontaneous emotion in him completely gone, replaced by a newfound cold anger towards the man that represented all of Hope in that moment, represented the town itself that had their lives in such a tenuous hold.

Adam held up his hands in surrender, dropping the reins of his horse Zodiac and focusing only on the gun pointed towards him. "He definitely didn't say you'd do that," he mumbled, eyes widening.

The outlaw's patience was wearing thin; if Adam was lying, he would know soon enough. "Four," he counted down, his stare never wavering.

"Hey, you're supposed to start at five!" Adam protested, but it didn't even cause David enough hesitation to catch his breath.

"Three."

"Dave," the youngest member implored the outlaw, a worried crease forming on his brow that he would actually go through with his threat by the end of the countdown.

Thinking on his feet, Adam tried to remember the instructions Andy gave to him upon meeting with his people--people Adam now knew certainly needed particular care. "There was a special phrase," he recounted, his mind hearkening back to the conversation in the sheriff's office. "Break...break _something._ " He snapped his fingers in an attempt to recharge his memory, but his time was running short.

"Two," was David's last warning, but as soon as the word fell from his lips Adam recalled the pass phrase that appeared so vital to his survival.

"Break...whatever needs to break."

The revolver dropped and returned to its holster; the stern, unflinching expression on David Cook's face softened in recognition, an unspoken acceptance of Adam's code. The innkeeper breathed a sigh of relief, not knowing how close he could have come to death. "You have met with Andy," he concluded.

Adam nodded, trying to catch his breath, not noticing how his heart had been racing when the outlaw's gun was trained on him. "He's in jail, in Hope right now," he explained, watching the reactions of each man very carefully. He wasn't looking for any more surprises coming his way. "The sheriff's arrested him, looking for someone to pin the bank robbery on, get all the credit. He's already sent for a judge from Santa Fe."

David gave a grim nod of recognition; any territory in the country would want to lay claim to arresting and convicting a King. The truth would eventually come out, and Andy's face was bound to be recognized once it was published by newspapers hungry for a story. "They're lookin' to try him," he concluded, his brow furrowing in frustration. If only he had told Andy to leave Hope as soon as possible...if only he hadn't been so damn confident, this might have all been different.

"The sheriff's looking to _hang_ him," Adam corrected sadly. Gokey had already made it clear he didn't have a penny of pity for the man he shot in the back, and a proper trial would just make it look like he was wasting the territory's time. By the gunshot wound he inflicted or by decree of execution, Danny looked to gain much from Andy's death. The youngest member of the gang reacted with a small squeak in his throat that he tried to mask with an over-compensating cough; Adam supposed that even outlaws feared death just as he did.

"But we," he gave the alternative to a dreary fate for their companion, "are looking to get him out of here."

"Who's 'we'?" David asked suspiciously; Andy had said the Lambert Inn had a certain amount of power within the town but he didn't think that extended so far as to manage their prisoners. It was unorthodox, to say the least, that Adam came to them to discuss matters of the law at all.

There was no point in holding back his connection with Kris now; the Kings didn't need to know the nature of their relationship, but if they agreed to this arrangement they'd get to know Kris Allen well enough in time. "The deputy; we're working together. His name--"

"We know who the deputy is," David interrupted with a wave of his hand. For outsiders, Adam thought with a frown, they sure seemed to know a whole lot about the town. "Thought he was on the straight and narrow, though. Doesn't sound like a fellow who'd let a man out of his jail." More than the passing details on Hope and its decadent inn, David remembered from Andy's report that the deputy was a force to be reckoned with. It wasn't his reputation that preceded him, but his love for the position and his loyalty towards the law, rendering him, as David assumed, dangerous and incorruptible. Perhaps he wasn't as incorruptible as David thought.

Adam couldn't help but snicker; even outlaws knew how much Kris Allen believed in justice. "That's my Kris, alright," he muttered under his breath, ducking his head to hide the smile he couldn't control whenever the other man crossed his mind. Kris didn't merely believe in standing up for what was legal; he believed in doing what was right, an unwavering philosophy that allowed Kris to see the best in people, to always give a stranger or a new friend a chance--just like he had when he and Adam first met. Even when he'd find out about Andy's connection to the Kings--which, Adam reflected with a nervous gulp, was going to be quite an interesting conversation--Kris would most likely want to set the prisoner free regardless, resenting the disrespectful method of the arrest more than the crime itself.

"He doesn't belong where he is right now," Adam said, referring not only to the jail cell at Hope but the pain Andy was in due to Danny's actions. No one deserved to go through that, not even the perpetrator himself. "He belongs back with you."

 _You're damn right he belongs with us,_ David thought but held his tongue. "What are you looking for here?" he said between gritted teeth, his guard automatically up ever since Adam said he was there on behalf of the deputy. David wasn't pleased, to say the least, at having to deal with a lawman in order to get Andy back. As loyal and righteous as this deputy might be, David knew he would want something in return; no good deed goes unpunished.

"The deputy wants to meet with you, discuss some arrangements," he explained, as the crease in David's brow deepened along with his suspicions. "We can get Andy back to you, and we want to, but we ask you to do something for us in return." Adam said, as he took a deep breath to calm both himself and the outlaws, understanding now by the waver in his voice and the flutter of fear in his heart why the prisoner had failed to mention that he was meeting with known murderers and thieves.

"How can we trust you?" spoke up the youngest outlaw, a blue-eyed gaze attempting to be as steely and intimidating as possible towards Adam. Almost as a testament to someone truly intimidating, David shot him a cold, admonishing glare over his shoulder, a clear indication that he was the spokesman for the gang--and wasn't searching for help from others in the process. David held his doubts about this chance meeting, especially since it involved the word of a lawman, but he couldn't make a decision yet based on the little knowledge they had.

But the moment Neal had heard the Kings's pass phrase out of Adam Lambert's mouth, he had made up his own mind about truth and trust. "We can," he said in a gruff, low voice, his eyes fixed on the newcomer, Adam's words ringing in his head. They were the first words Neal had directed towards anyone since the night before, when he threatened David with the promise of resentment and unforgiveness should Andy die, and each syllable was filled with a determination none of the men had ever heard in his voice. If this man said he had contact with Andy, then he was their best chance at getting him back, without resorting to an angry, violent mess. And although Neal was very willing to step over the dead bodies of every soul in Hope to get to Andy, even he realized the easier way to go about it was a peaceful one. Neal would trust this innkeeper and his lawman because he had to; because he would stop at nothing, even allying himself with enemies, to get Andy back.

"Andy's sent him here, with his blessing," David said, recalling the phrase Adam gave them as vividly as Neal had, remembering the time they had created their code and never thinking of the day they would have to use it. His face grew dark though his expression had not changed; perhaps Adam had just been imagining it, his eyes only accenting the trepidation he felt over his close brush with the Kings's violent side. "If he were in danger, or held against his will, he would have given a different code...one that would tell us to shoot Mr. Lambert here off his horse."

Adam gulped, knowing the threat from these outlaws was no laughing matter, and thanking all powers that be who cared to listen for getting on Andy's good side. This could have been quite a different kind of meeting had any of their encounters gone south, but Kris and Adam had gained the prisoner's trust through care and toil, and it appeared Andy repaid that in kind. He watched David's attentions turn back to him, feeling only marginally safer; despite David's words and the few but meaningful words of the Dr., Adam felt that the trust of the Kings could wear thin at any given moment.

"We're not looking for trouble," he repeated. "We just want to get everything back to normal, for all of us. This was Andy's plan to begin with; he sent me to make this whole arrangement. He said...once you speak with the deputy, you'll want to agree to the deal."

The outlaw set his jaw again, a resentment in his eyes: Andy knew extensively of his hatred towards lawmen, their self-righteous duplicity; their lies and cruelty far harsher than any death the Kings had ever caused. He would know David's hesitance to work with any of them, even in order to save one of his men from execution; every deal made with the law, just like every lawman himself, had a price. But through all this, Andy had made an alliance with Hope's deputy, and asked now to trust in a plan that would benefit every man involved. The shadow of the Kings was a good judge of character and would never put the others in danger even if it meant his own freedom. David felt the presence of his second in command behind him, Neal deadly quiet the entire morning, a silent obedience to go along with whatever plan meant getting Andy back. Andy wouldn't risk _his_ life for his own freedom.

That fact helped make up David's mind on working with a man who, for all moral and personal desires, should want to get the Kings behind bars. He may have been the leader of the outlaws, but for this job it appeared a lawman would be calling the shots. "Where am I meeting your deputy," he asked, though refusing to bring himself to raising his voice into a question. He would agree to working with the law of Hope, but he wasn't planning on being pleased about it, either.

Adam told him of an old miner's shack four miles east of the town--the gold mine had been a bust even before he had been born, the cabin long abandoned, but Adam seemed to find an extra use for the place somehow. He assured the Kings their security in the area, the land too rocky for farmers and too barren for the stray cattle rancher, but even so David planned to take precautions, allowing the men from Hope to determine the location of the meeting but staying firm on the time. Sunset, he declared, and not a minute later, and no one present but the deputy, lest Hope hold one more trick up its sleeve. Adam gritted his teeth at the thought of Kris meeting the outlaws all alone, but David quickly promised no violence against the deputy unless it was provoked, reminding him that of the two sides the Kings had more to lose.

"We're gonna make sure he gets back to you," Adam confirmed, Zodiac uneasy underneath him, the beast picking up the restlessness in his bones, eager to be back within the town limits.

The stare returned to him told him there was no room for error or for lies; David Cook was serious about the welfare of his men, and if Kris or Adam played him at any point in the arrangement, there would be hell to pay. "You reckon he better."

Tugging on the reins of his horse, Adam turned to leave, when a voice he had heard little of that morning called him back. "Wait."

It was the sharpshooter, the deadly outlaw known throughout the West as the Dr., his face something to be feared by every man. But the expression that Adam saw was far from terrifying: the stone-faced man who glowered before with one hand always on the revolver at his belt had softened, a momentary lapse into emotion Adam doubted he allowed himself often. His pale brow furrowed, his blue eyes rimmed with deep sadness, and as he frowned his mouth hesitated to speak the words dying to escape his lips. If he spoke up, he'd break the Kings's inherent rule to allow David to do all the talking, but if he didn't he would be breaking his own heart.

Neal's lower lip trembled with hesitation, afraid of the answer as much as posing the question. But if Adam had been in contact with their fallen partner, he had to know; it would kill him not to ask. "Is...is he okay?"

Adam saw the sadness in the stranger's eyes, a sympathetic desperation and the glimmer of hope that not all was yet lost. There was a yearning in those eyes, that simple question, that a man did not naturally have for just a partner in crime. Adam reflected on the same anguished look the prisoner in Hope's jail cell held in his eyes ever since he arrived, and how he himself would feel should he ever experience this unfortunate separation from Kris.

 _This_ was the man Andy was dying to get back to, the one whose name Kris said he mumbled in feverish dreams, sought to stop at nothing to reunite with once again. From the look in the sharpshooter's eyes Adam knew he felt the same way. His heart went out to Neal, unguarded at that moment, emotions laid bare for an observant eye to see, and he decided he could not let even an outlaw stay in the dark about his lover, but he couldn't bring himself to lie, either.

"It was pretty bad for a while," he admitted with a sympathetic tone; Adam could almost sense the breath catch in Neal's throat, the grip on his horse's reins tightening. He remembered Kris's gruesome details about the first night caring for Andy's wounds, how the smell of fresh blood permeated the sheriff's office that next morning; Adam was surprised that Andy even lived through the night. Perhaps determination was a force to be reckoned with; perhaps it was pure stubbornness to see Neal again that kept Andy going. "But he's doing just fine now. Your friend's a fighter," he reassured Neal, the sigh of relief visibly escaping his body, Adam recalling how quickly Andy was regaining his strength back in Hope. "He'll be alright; I promise."

But as the two parties took their separate ways--the Kings off to the depths of the muddy plain to regroup, Adam back into town to tell a whopper of a tale to Kris--the deputy's common reproach echoed in his head, his frequent, realistic answer to Adam's tendency to dole out such frivolous guarantees. He _couldn't_ promise, he couldn't ensure the future, and all of their fates were now held as tenuously as the word of an outlaw.


	21. Chapter 21

_"I have always known that I was doing wrong, but I got started when I was a fool boy, led off by older heads." - Bill Longley, before his execution_

 

"You're lying. You're a liar. Why would you lie to me like that?"

Adam tried not to snicker at Kris's rank disbelief in his story but it was terribly difficult. His deputy was just so damn adorable when he was indignant. "You know," he teased, stroking his chin with a manicured thumb in contemplation. "Once you get over the fact you might get shot, it was actually kinda cool."

He had to move that hand at his chin upwards to hide a laugh as Kris's eyes widened in shock, horrified that Adam would ever utter such a thing. "It is not cool," he insisted, the air in the sheriff's office suddenly feeling suffocating, though he didn't dare take this conversation outside. "You could have been hurt; you could have been _killed_." The thought alone of Adam making the wrong move, saying the wrong words and dying on some desolate trail caused Kris's head to buzz, his vision swimming over the tension. And he was the one who _sent_ Adam on this task; God, he would have never forgiven himself if something happened...

"But I wasn't." Adam shrugged, his confidence retrieved once he rode back into the town limits, the nervous breath he had been holding while meeting with the Kings finally expelled. It hadn't been the most pleasant of experiences but it wasn't the disaster Kris was envisioning. He had dealt with far surlier, if not more dangerous, patrons at the Lambert Inn who refused to settle a bar tab or liked to play rough with an escort of the evening. Above all they appeared to be gentlemen true to their word, which was more than Adam could say for many of the men populating the wild West these days. "They're not harmless but they know where they stand. They wouldn't get Andy back easy if they shot me, that's for sure."

Kris pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, words and his own ideals buzzing in his head. "They're _outlaws,_ " he repeated, hoping perhaps this time it would sink in. "I sent you out to meet with _outlaws._ " He turned to the man at the heart of this situation, resting inside the jail cell, silent throughout Adam's report and Kris's subsequent blowup, but his large brown eyes were ever watchful, taking in every word from the pair, every movement. Now Kris knew why Andy could be so calm in the face of serious injury, of the threat of trial; why he had reserved his energy to heal himself, rather than waste his breath on proclaiming his innocence. "Why didn't you tell us?!" he turned his frustrations towards the wounded man, his anger justifiable.

Andy was still, his jaw set and unrepentant; he was going to be found out eventually, he supposed, but he didn't suspect the deputy would take it this badly. It's not that he had lied to them in any way, his condition leaving him unable to muster the energy for a lie; Kris had simply believed in the core of his heart that Andy was an innocent traveler, and so long as the thought benefited them both, Andy wasn't going to contradict him. "You never asked," he said, his voice a cold deadpanned note, stating the obvious.

"They could have killed him," he repeated to Andy, a bite in his tone that surprised the outlaw; he had seen Kris, through a pain-soaked haze, react in this same way when Danny Gokey brought him into the jail, bloodied and dying, a disgraceful bullet wound puncturing the skin at his back. Few things incited the laid-back Kris Allen into action, one being injustice and corruption of the law; the other was seeing those he loved in danger.

Trying not to roll his eyes at the accusation, Andy leveled his emotions with a cold tone, the deputy's view of the moral spectrum of outlaws decidedly narrow. The Kings didn't kill anyone they did not have to kill: Andy took no pleasure in taking someone else's life and neither did the others, death slowly becoming a necessary evil. For all the men they had laid into the ground, all the bodies turned to dust at their hands, not one of those unfortunate souls did not, for some reason, deserve it. David might have considered Adam a threat, and Neal might have been in a mental state to shoot first and ask questions later, but Andy was certain no harm would have come to him.

"Our gang has a _conscience,_ " he said, resenting the idea that the Kings would shoot anyone that came across their path; that had been a possibility, one night so many months ago in Nevada, and if that had become their policy the path of the Kings would have been very different indeed. "And his name is Kyle Peek."

"The young one!" Adam snapped his fingers in recognition, a grin spreading across his face. Andy couldn't help but smile, chuckling under his breath as he nodded in assent, Adam confirming it was indeed the Kings he had met outside of Hope, seeking him. It was comforting, to say the least, and hell even the kid's face would be a sight for Andy's sore eyes, though he was certainly not the one he longed to see the most. "I remember him; yeah, he didn't really look like he wanted to kill me. Pleasant change."

Andy's face turned serious. "And the others?" he asked, his face etched with concern. Adam raised in eyebrow while observing the man in the cell; it was remarkable how the care evident in those features mirrored what he had seen on the trail that morning. "Are they all doing okay? How--"

"I can't," Kris interrupted, running nervous fingers through his hair, palms sweating just at the thought of this arrangement. Just what did he get himself into? "Make a deal with outlaws. Dear God, the Kings just robbed our bank!"

Adam stared at Kris with a look of sympathy and disappointment on his face, Kris easily mistaking what was lawful and what was right in their predicament. Had he met the outlaws, perhaps Kris would have felt differently towards the situation: he would have seen they were just men, exactly like Adam and Kris were, and they were not monsters to fear and hate. His years managing the Lambert Inn, watching men come in and out of his doors from all walks of life, heirs, paupers and outlaws alike, showed Adam that a man's nature should have nothing to do with business. "I told them we'd cause no trouble, Kris," he said, a waver of doubt in his voice. He had made many a promise to the Kings that morning, and worried what would happen should the two men back down on any part of this arrangement. "I told them we'd go through with it."

"You backing out, dep?" Andy's words seemed to form a question but his tone was anything but inquisitive, his deep-set eyes boring into Kris with a cold, menacing glare. If Kris was having second thoughts about working with the Kings, on helping Andy get back to his people, then his grievances needed to be aired in that sheriff's office immediately. Andy needed to know what his next move would be; the arrangement was like a well-maintained revolver, its effectiveness depending on every component working in cooperation with one another. If just one cog, one trigger fell apart, the whole operation could explode and destroy them all.

But there was no hesitation when Kris shook his head, no doubt in his eyes as he stared back at Andy, whose innocence in the bank heist was now under serious suspicion, but his resolve remained unchanged. "I made a promise and I stick by my word," Kris assured him. He had still saved this man from death by Danny Gokey's bullet; still tasted the bitter dregs of the unjust and cowardly arrest on his tongue. If Andy deserved to die for what he and the Kings had done over the years, then God would be his judge, not Gokey; Kris believed a man will reap what he has sown in life, but he would make sure it wouldn't happen in Hope. "I don't want to, but we will. I told you we're getting you out of here, and I meant it." He gave a small smile to the man in the cell and though the sentiment was not returned, the cold glint in Andy's eyes waned, his gratitude overshadowing his guarded instincts. Unlike other lawmen Andy had met in his travels, even in this town, Kris Allen proved himself to be a good man.

The sheriff of Hope, however, did not receive the same justice. Kris could not admit to himself that his decision to continue with their plan was completely altruistic; he wanted to send Andy on his way, get him back to the people who waited for him and the man he loved, but it was just as much about hurting the sheriff's pride as it was Kris's heroism. Danny had arrived earlier that day, a surprising check-up on the jail, concerned more about Kris's handling of his criminal commodity than Andy's well-being. With barely a glance in the prisoner's direction, oblivious to the simmering rage shot from Andy's eyes like twin pistols in his direction, Danny deemed the conditions of the office deplorable, chastising Kris over the dried blood on the floor, melting itself permanently into the grains of wood on the desk. He ordered his deputy to clean up the mess, producing a handkerchief in front of his nose to guard himself from the odor of his own handiwork, and regardless of whether Andy was dead or alive, to make him presentable for any sketch artists or photographers Santa Fe carted down. His visit had meant that Danny would not return until enough time elapsed to scrub a jail cell floor spotless, probably not until a reporting circus arrived into town--all positive outlooks for Kris and their plan, though it left Kris with the urge to tell Gokey his presence was what mucked up the place.

Gokey's enthusiasm for his arrest, fueled by the town's curiosity, had turned into a full-scale cockiness that grew with every moment he anticipated a judge handing him his prisoner's conviction and a bevy of newspapers championing his name. It disgusted Kris, Gokey sullying the good title of Hope's sheriff by shooting a stranger in the dark of night and trying him as a King. The deputy grimaced until the realization dawned upon him, a shocking, sinking feeling worse than his rage and more terrible than collaborating with outlaws, murderers and thieves. His eyes went wide as he looked over at Adam.

"Oh my God," he whispered, the impossible suddenly becoming very real. "This means...Gokey was _right_."

***

Kyle had let his fears run away with him, letting them win over common sense like they had when they invaded his dreams, making him visibly skittish the entire day. Always unsure whether his nightmare was just a terrible fantasy or a premonition, Kyle constantly looked over his shoulder as the Kings rode away, half-expecting Adam to swerve around on his horse and show his true colors as an expert marksman sent to decimate the rest of the outlaw gang. Even David noticed the change in Kyle's demeanor, shooting a stern look in his direction as they waited out the day in silence, not having the patience to address it.

When the time came to meet with Kris Allen, those fears had diminished for Kyle, who trusted in the promise of security Adam had given them in the morning, but only increased for his fellow Kings. David was still at odds with his gut instinct to distrust all lawmen, keeping a keen eye on the shadowy crags and ridges along their journey, almost expecting the men from Hope to go back on their word and organize an ambush. He had insisted the deputy meet with them alone but now he also wished Adam had ordered the same concession: if the deputy did plan to cross him David would have rather faced the firefight alone, rather than lead his men to their deaths. And Neal's mind focused only on Andy's safe return, silently agreeing to comply with David's negotiations and exact a swift and violent vengeance upon anyone standing in the way of his goal--including David himself.

The shack Adam mentioned that morning came into view just as the day descended into night, a sunless gray sky only darkening the heavens and preparing for dusk, like a child smudging the lines of a charcoal sketch, turning everything to black. The tiny house was still a distance away, a good mile as the horse gallops by Kyle's observations, and laden with their full gear and the additional cargo of a riderless Vera, the Kings's horses weren't in any position that day to gallop anywhere. The flat and barren lands on the outskirts of Hope left little room to hide: any decent-size posse couldn't hide in the desert grasses, matted down from the previous night's downpour, and the abandoned, fruitless mines still loomed ahead of them.

Any threat to the Kings on the last leg of this journey were laid out in front of them with no place to hide, and that very threat approached them, ambling forward on an ashen horse the color of the stormy skies at high noon.

Kyle instinctively pulled on Gangles's reins and stopped short, readying himself for a quick retreat; Neal reached for the revolver at his right hip, his fingers halfway towards cocking the hammer and striking down the stranger that blocked their way. But they were both halted by a steady hand and an authoritative glare from their leader. At first glance David did not see the able-bodied horse that could outrun them and catch them off-guard like Kyle, or the gun at the man's side like Neal; instead he noticed the tin star attached to the man's vest, gleaming in David's eye like a beacon.

"You Kris Allen?" David narrowed his eyes as he called out to the approaching rider, a silhouette he didn't recognize riding low in the saddle, a jaw set squarely and confidently on the lawman's face while his hands gripped the reins tight, telling a different tale. Kris gave a single nod. His early presence was a surprise to the Kings, and David did not appreciate surprises.

"I reckon I already know who you are," came the drawl from the other man, his features coming into clearer focus. A strong jaw and steely brown eyes complemented his strong convictions, the genial smile Kris gave to the townspeople of Hope so generously now tucked away, replaced with something harder to show the outlaws he was no pushover. If only Adam could see him now, Kris thought fleetingly, his lover where he left him in the shack keeping watch...he'd probably be turned on by the machismo.

The expression on David's face was even less welcoming: if Kris so chose to make this a standoff, David would be sure to let him know he chose the wrong outlaw to challenge. "We're not supposed to meet here, are we." The rhetorical question cut deeply into Kris's strong front, worried that despite all of Adam's reassurances to the contrary, any wrong move and the outlaws would leave him on that landscape a young and very aerated corpse.

"Thought I'd save you the trip," Kris said, keeping his horse Conway at a steady pace, staying on his path towards the Kings, too wary he might give them cause for alarm. He wasn't very comfortable making deals with outlaws, but if he had to keep his word, he would do it right. The truth was he wanted to keep them away from the shack and its inhabitants, protecting his and Adam's best interests by plotting a wide distance between the Kings and their fallen partner, and protecting his own best interests by making sure they never had a chance to harm Adam. Kris agreed he would meet with them alone, and Kris alone was what they would get.

As Neal and Kyle retreated and allowed David to speak for the gang, Kris felt a tension coiling in his gut, hoping he was making the right decision for everyone involved, including his town. "Hear you've got a proposition for us," David raised an eyebrow, his stare as cold as ever, unrelenting and formidable against the deputy. He had years of experience staring down threats and eliminating them in whatever way possible; Kris was used to genial smiles, pleasant tips of his hat to passers-by on his morning rounds. He could never hope to rival David Cook's intimidation skills; the man was outmatched. "Negotiations are made at a price; I respect that."

His eyes went dark as the skies and just as gray and foreboding, and made Kris remember never to get on the outlaw's bad side. He wondered if he had found his way there already. "But don't you fucking _dare_ try to cross us. We will take you, and yours, and every damn inch of that town and raze it to the ground, to the last splinter." His tone had been growing lower with each word until David's voice was nothing more than a growl, and Kris could barely hear him as he advanced on his horse. "This isn't about a bank robbery; it's not even about any of the lives in your precious little town. You've got one of us...and we want him back."

Neal spoke up with a frustrated sneer on his lips, wishing for once that David Cook wasn't so goddamned verbose. They needed _action_ now, not a verbal showdown. "Fucking _enough_ , Dave," he snarled, then turned his gaze on Kris, the hatred blazing in his clear blue eyes much different from what the deputy saw in David's. "Where's Andy?"

The look shot over David's shoulder was menacing and harsher than even David himself expected; his hazel eyes lunged daggers at Neal, his jaw clenched, furious over the interruption. He was doing the best he could possibly hope for, dammit; their negotiations might take longer than Neal had the patience for but they were going to do this right. "Neal," he warned through gritted teeth. All Neal's tactics would get them would be the bottom of a shallow grave; David wasn't letting Hope take any more of his men, rip the Kings apart worse than they already had.

Kris jumped at the growl of a name on David's lips; he had heard that name before but from quite a different tone, the sigh of a man unconscious of his own feelings, a deep yearning that went beyond the parameters of friendship or physical desire. Kris had been right: it _was_ his obligation to return Andy to the one he didn't even realize he loved. "He'll be fine," he directed his words to Neal, knowing this was the man that needed to hear them. There was information he had wanted to keep until the time was right, but Kris saw in Neal's eyes that anything he withheld from him would be a detail Kris learned to regret. "He's in the cabin right now. We managed to sneak him out of town today; hopefully the sheriff won't notice."

Keeping the jailbreak from Gokey was the easy part; actually spiriting Andy away from the town, the outlaw still shaky on his legs at best, turned out to be quite another. Thanks to a rejuvenated Conway and a well-timed distraction by the residents of the Lambert Inn, always ready to do the boss a favor, Kris and Adam managed to hoist the prisoner up on horseback and make their way around the outskirts of town, keeping their hats low against their brows and making sure not to cause a stir. Andy had put up a strong front when the plan was floated by him, but by the first mile of their journey towards the shack it was clear the travel was draining what energy he had; he grew awfully weak by the time the three had reached their destination, and Kris was lucky Adam had come along or else he had no idea how the diminutive deputy alone would have gotten him off of the horse.

Rationally, Kris let this last detail blow away on the breezes of the storm's tail end; he had a feeling telling the Kings their partner was badly wounded and weak, especially the man who looked about ready to race off towards the cabin at the slightest provocation, would not end well. "We'll get him to you," he assured them. "But first--"

"Your man said you wanted something from us this morning," David said, his doubting instincts still irritated with him for agreeing to work alongside a lawman. Once Kris named this favor of his, David told himself, it would ease his worries, but, stifling a frown, he couldn't even believe his own reassurances.

He tried to hide the grin creeping upon his face by tucking in his chin and masking it as a nod of his head; Kris didn't need the Kings believing he was making light of their partner's situation. But he had never heard anyone call Adam his man before, albeit in a wholly different context than Kris imagined it to be, and the term rolled around his mind in a joyful tumble, lightening his mood, bringing him back to Adam's eyes and his smile and all of the memories they themselves had made in that abandoned miner's shack. He was his man, alright, and it took the words of an outlaw for him to accept it.

Now was not the time to dwell on his emotions and pleasant memories; with a firm rattle of his head to dispel the wandering thoughts, Kris once again met David Cook's gaze, as steely as ever. "Our town's got ourselves a problem with its sheriff," he spoke bluntly, the hazy, gray daylight descending into darkness with every moment, and these were not men Kris wanted to be caught on an empty, dark plain with. "He's ambitious, and driven...but it's all for himself. He ain't doing any good for this town."

David's eyes darkened, his mouth curling into a sneer. The deputy needed guns for hire to do his dirty work, it seemed...just like a lawman to get someone else to do the deed so he doesn't get his hands sullied. He remembered the many men he encountered during his tireless hunt of the lawman who wronged his family, drifters and oddjobs who knew only enough to get them their next full stomach and never had clues to his charge's next whereabouts. David hated that man for his cowardice; he hated those he hired for going along with it. And now he was to become one of them. "So you want us to..." he drifted off deliberately, the hand reaching for his holster finishing the sentence for him.

But, much like before, the deputy was about to jar David's assumptions yet again. "No!" he shouted, eyes going wide at the flash of movement at David's hip, knowing immediately what he was inferring. "No murder here; no killing. Andy already promised me you wouldn't resort to that."

"Doesn't _sound_ like something Andy would say," David snorted, but he acquiesced, neither outlaw nor lawman looking to kill.

"Scare him, intimidate him, fine; but don't kill him. I just...I don't want him ruining my town," Kris said with an exhausted sigh, not realizing how freeing it felt to say those words aloud to strangers. Too aware of the prying ears and gossiping whispers that almost always came back to Gokey, Kris hadn't spoken freely about his frustrations to anyone, not even Adam, whose own grievances against the sheriff outweighed the deputy's. But these men, who didn't know a lick about his life and could care even less, felt safe to reveal that to, their indifference towards Kris's plight strangely comforting.

Begrudgingly, David gave a solid nod, catching Kris's eye, their agreement silent yet wholly understood; a contract as clandestine as theirs required such measures. "We want Andy first," David ordered; the Kings were desperate but they weren't stupid. Adam had given the Kings the correct pass phrase that morning but a lot could have changed in the course of a day; even so, a cunning and deceitful lawman could have easily forced the code from Andy's memory, and David wouldn't put it past Kris Allen to be that kind of man.

Kris shook his head so vehemently the horse underneath him snorted in protest, Conway hesitant to retreat as his rider's movement indicated. "That's not happening," he said sternly, his stubbornness a front against his own fears. If he returned Andy to his outlaw partners first, there was no reason for the Kings not to leave town the moment of the exchange, without fulfilling their part of the bargain--or, Kris dreaded with a gulp, there was no reason for the Kings not to eliminate the witnesses to their trade-off, rendering their deal obsolete. "Got to make sure you'll hold up your end of the deal."

"And _we've_ got to make sure our man's _alive_ or you've got no deal," David spat back. For all he knew--the threat alone had David tasting angry bile in his throat, his eyes narrowing to slits, and he was thankful Neal could not read his thoughts--their friend was already dead. Already he heard the unfamiliar protest of Neal's horse behind him, neighing at a sudden tug on his reins undoubtedly caused by the Dr. on impulse. No one liked hearing talk of Andy's death as a possibility, most understandably Neal. For once David couldn't decipher what was going on in Neal's mind, what demons he must be battling at that very moment.

The deputy, either in his ignorance or his cunning--David hadn't known the man long enough to determine in which he excelled--only made the situation worse. "I'll take you to see him," he conceded, realizing that the Kings would accept nothing less, the word of a lawman meaning nothing to them unless they had hard evidence that Andy was alright. Still Kris was no fool: he could handle simple arithmetic, and one deputy and an innkeeper against a legendary outlaw gang with more notches in their barrels than Kris could count were unsurmountable odds. They couldn't all travel with him back to the cabin; he couldn't take that risk. "But only one of you."

Immediately David turned Sugarfoot away from the deputy and towards the man behind him, facing the Dr. head-on. As soon as the offer was made David knew Neal would be the one who wanted to go with all of his heart, but David would have to be the one to actually make the journey. There was still too much emotion in this operation, for everyone involved; at the very least David could push that aside, work for everyone's best interests and see the situation from a rational side. He had faith that Neal could do the same, for any crisis other than the one laid before them. He eyed Neal with a grim determination behind his stare, their skill at communicating without words put to its test. And if something went awry--if this really was an ambush and one King rode out to his death--David wouldn't forgive himself if he let someone else take that bullet. His leadership already caused one to be captured, and one to desert; he didn't dare lose another.

With a sad acceptance mirrored in Neal's eyes he nodded to David, sensing the reasons he was being left behind. He understood the reasons though his heart screamed in protest, pounding in his ears and threatening to beat right out of his chest; it was for that very sensation he knew being the one to see Andy would only benefit himself, not the Kings as a whole. And if was being honest to himself, Neal couldn't guarantee that after one look at Andy in that miner's shack--wounded, weakened, Neal longing so earnestly for just a glimpse--he wouldn't abscond with him on the spot, shoot anyone standing in his way, and never return.

David made his way towards Kyle, who sat patiently atop his horse, his silence a mark of calm respect for David's authority that he did not possess mere months ago. Experience, David assumed, was encountered best in times of crisis. He gave a silent nod in David's direction, accepting without consequence his fate to stay behind, reminding the young man of his first heist with the Kings in Fox Canyon, though this time he planned to stay where he was told. Though Kyle was still rather green around his ears and the tips of his shoulder-length hair, he understood the gravity of the situation, knowing a deviation from any plan of theirs could leave much more at stake.

His eyes widened with surprise as David leaned in closer, bringing Kyle closer in his confidences than he expected. There was something deeply serious and personal on David's face, the usual clarity in his hazel eyes clouded by uncertainty, like a soldier on the eve of war, penning his final farewells to his family. "Kyle," he said, voice barely louder than the sound of the horses breathing. "Keep an eye out for him, alright?"

Both of their gazes flitted over to Neal, oblivious to the attention and paying mind only to the thoughts building up in his own head. It was unconventional, to say the least, that David entrusted the kid with the task of watching out for his second in command, but unique times called for unique measures, and it was an order Kyle dared not to leave unfulfilled. It was not the command of a leader that compelled him but the entreaty of a friend; this went beyond the mission, beyond keeping the Kings alive, to a strong yet insecure man, doing all that he could to keep his friends--his _family_ \--together.

"I just..." David bit his lip, stifling the words he dreaded to say, the thoughts he could not reveal. "If it goes down--if everything here fails--you get your ass out of here, alright? Don't let Neal--"

"I'll take care of him," Kyle said, his face as serious as ever and mature beyond his twenty-two years. Despite David's protests, if the Kings went down, they would all go down together, go down fighting. "We're all going to take care of each other."

With a hard glance at the deadly sharpshooter he called his friend, who finally returned the stare with something akin to admiration, David said his goodbyes to Neal and Kyle and set off on the short journey to a place he did not know, with a man he did not trust, to a fate no one would be able to predict. As uncertainty hung in the air like a dense fog never seen in Hope hence or since, David wondered after this night if the Kings would ever be the same again.


	22. Chapter 22

_"Goodbye boys, if I never see you again." - Nate Champion, during a siege at the KC Ranch_

 

This shack had seen a lot of interesting things in its lifetime, Adam mused, but perhaps none so interesting as housing a fugitive outlaw with the lawman who helped him escape.

The old cabin was a remnant from the booming days of mining in New Mexico, a skeleton of someone's dreams that never amounted to anything in the barren caves outside of Hope. Adam's father could have told the prospectors there was nothing but prairie dogs in the ground there, but no one likes another man telling them their goals are a fraud; if they did, Adam supposed the Lambert Inn would have never come to be, either. He had discovered it a little less than a year ago, weathered and barely on its bolts but still standing, and fashioned it to be a home away from home, lacking the sumptuous decorations of the inn but having its own homey charm. Used primarily as a secret rendezvous point for him and Kris outside the town limits, the cabin gave them a freedom to live and love each other that Kris's lodgings could never allow, and even the liberal walls of the Lambert Inn could not afford. The one-room shack wasn't much, and it certainly wasn't up to Adam's high standards, but in so many ways it felt more like a home, their home, than anywhere else in the world.

All aspects of the shack, however, that were overlooked or ignored by its current resident, who was understandably too preoccupied with the pain and weariness of his travels to pay attention to the cabin's lore. Though he had been silent during the secret ride from his jail cell to the abandoned shack, Andy discovered early on that his wounds hadn't healed fully in the past few days, and the pain he experienced through gritted teeth was immense, his nerves on fire with each step of the horse. When they finally reached their destination he was physically drained, the strength he had gathered earlier in the day fully depleted by the ride, and it took all of Andy's willpower just to stay in the saddle. He was more relieved than he realized when he saw the simple bed inside the shack, and he took up residence on the comfortable mattress while Adam busied himself with the fireplace and kept watch. It was worlds better than the cold, hard-packed dirt floor of the jail that had been his resting place for the past two nights, and even a step up from the worn bedroll he laid upon when riding with his fellow Kings.

A pang of emotion shot through him that felt equally as sharp as the pain from his shoulder, lamenting his separation from his fellow outlaws and hoping their negotiations with the deputy went smoothly. Though the leader of the Kings was fiercely against allying with lawmen of any kind, Andy hoped David would see past his hatred and let his rational instincts win out, allowing him to work with Kris and grant them all what they wanted. Andy had promised Kris no violence in their agreement, and while he relished the thought of paying the sheriff back for the bullet hole in his shoulder, he would abide by his word; without it, Andy was sure, both the deputy and his lover would already be dead.

As it were, Adam was far from dead, smiling warmly as he busied himself around the small cabin, his duties as Andy's custodian while Kris met with the Kings focusing more on making the shack livable than ensuring Andy did not escape. The outlaw groaned as he hoisted himself up to a sitting position on the bed, resting his weary back against the cabin wall; escape was not much of an option to him now. "Hope it's warm enough in here for you," Adam commented, stoking the fledgling fire with his bootheel, carefully avoiding singeing the expensive leather. "Guess the storm brought on the early cold in these parts, too." He quickly clarified himself; not everyone was as finicky as he was about their surroundings, particularly outlaws who masqueraded as innocent travelers. "But I'm sure you've probably been in worse."

Desperate nights when it was too risky to even build a fire; the treacherous journeys through deserts that were just as freezing at night as they were scorching during the day, and equally unyielding. Andy and the Kings knew real hardship in the West; the fact alone that the shack had sturdy walls and a bed was more than the outlaw usually received. "This ain't bad," he downplayed instead, surprising himself with how exhausted his voice sounded. "Better than the jail, at least."

"A featherbed mattress over a cold floor in a pool of your own blood? I'd say so," Adam snorted, recalling how close to death Andy had looked when he first caught sight of him in Hope's jail cell. He pointed to the mattress Andy sat atop of, answering his question before it even reached his lips. Rarely did you find such a luxury item in the more desolate areas of the West, much less a miner's cabin left to its own destruction. "It's an import, from California," Adam explained. "Kris thought it was too incriminating if anyone ever found the place out here, but if I'm gonna sleep here, it's _not_ gonna be on a mattress made of tumbleweeds."

Andy raised an eyebrow at the implication, though he said nothing. He had been under the impression that the shack was abandoned--not that it had been found and restructured into a Western love nest. Besides, though he had suspected since his first morning in jail a liasion between the innkeeper and the deputy that went beyond mere friendship, Kris had never spoken about it, preferring to spend their time in the sheriff's office relaying memories of his family in Arkansas or recounting the daily activities of the people of Hope. If he had stumbled onto the topic of Adam at any point during Andy's incarceration, the deputy went silent, his mouth quirked to the side in contemplation, wary of letting any little detail slip past his lips.

Adam, on the other hand, seemed to not have the same compunction about modesty. Feeling free to wax romantic to a stranger--a captive audience, and one who would be leaving town forever soon enough at that--Adam was finally able to express the emotions he had bottled inside him for months, eager to gush about his love but finding no safe place or person to do so. It was relieving, to say the least, that the sheriff's prisoner was of a like mind. "Sometimes it's just easier to get out here," he said, shrugging his shoulders as he settled himself on a stool. "Don't have to worry about hiding; hate hiding, but with Kris's work there isn't much of a choice." If Adam had his way he would sing about his love from the rooftop of the Lambert Inn, hold on proudly to Kris and look at him with the affectionate gaze he only allowed himself in the privacy of his bedroom.

Even someone as skilled as Andy in masking his emotions in shadow couldn't help but smirk; Adam was beaming, and close to bursting if he didn't get to tell _someone_ about his feelings for Kris. As he had learned about himself years ago, Andy was always a sucker for gossip. He allowed Adam to ramble during their wait for Kris's return, the innkeeper as talkative on the subject as the deputy was silent. Though they had met upon Kris's arrival to Hope--where Adam had immediately found his humble good looks and manners as appealing as summer fruit, left to ripen in the sun--the pair had grown to be friends for many months before either man made a move to turn it into something more. Since the one late night in Adam's private quarters that had turned into an early morning, the innkeeper's senses were heightened with every thought of Kris, spirits lifted just by the mention of his name. Andy found his long and meandering tale of their romance interesting, pleasant even, a welcome distraction from his injuries; but when Adam brought the conversation to a different focus the pleasantries dropped away.

"But...you understand how that feels, don't you." Adam's words were a statement rather than a question, confirming his confidence with a wink. Despite his companion's mysterious and highly unlawful past, Adam found him easy to talk to, grateful for the opportunity to talk about Kris and have someone truly listening on the other end. But the moment he asked about Andy's own personal life, the air in the room turned cold, and it had nothing to do with the fire. The outlaw's face clouded over in self-preservation, his mouth naturally turning into a pouty frown. There were still some rare topics in his life that triggered Andy to drop his guard so his face was an open book, and Adam had just hit upon one of them.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied breezily as his gaze dropped to his hands, closing himself off from the conversation. Andy wasn't about to be interrogated, and certainly not about whatever similar circumstances Adam believed they shared.

Adam was never one for subtle hints, nor was he one to end a conversation on someone else's terms. "Of course you do," he rolled his eyes, Kris's penchant for calling out other people's lies obviously rubbing off on him. "It's the reason Kris decided to help you out, after all. My boy's always been a romantic," he sighed.

Still, Andy denied it, eyes on his hands, lower lip protruding into a contemplative pout. Love, romance...these were experiences shared by people with nothing better to do than fall for someone, for those like Kris and Adam, with their unconventional but sweet courtship and the lives they wished to share, entwine with one another's despite all the odds the town threw at them. Andy wasn't turning into some simpering fool for romance; he loved the men he rode with, would kill and die for the Kings, fight and laugh with them like brothers, but it wasn't the love Adam had described. What Andy had with Neal wasn't at all what Adam described. "We're not--I'm not in love," he quickly corrected himself, stumbling over his own tongue, and for the life of him he couldn't understand why he had started his sentence like that in the first place.

It was then that Adam's face grew serious, as the shadows of flickering flames danced on the shack's walls and along his features. Andy could try to fool Adam as much as he liked, he mused, but he wouldn't allow Andy to continue fooling himself. "Come _on_ ," he groaned, stomping his bootheel against the bed frame, jarring Andy's attention back to him. "Don't play that game with me. I _met_ him." Andy's gaze shot up, wide, brown eyes looking into Adam's, no longer indifferent at just the mention of the other man. _If he's not in love with him,_ Adam thought to himself with a smirk, _then I'm the Queen of England._

"He was with the others when I caught up with them this morning," Adam began, and for once that afternoon Andy listened with a visible, rapt attention he never gave their other conversations, not even when he was on the job. There was no reason to hide the fact that he was listening now, that he hung on every word Adam had to say about Neal. Adam couldn't resist a smile, wondering if Kris was meeting the same three men at that very moment, if he caught the same immediate intuition from them as Adam had. "Cute; a little too rough around the edges, a lot too blond for my type, but I can still appreciate the beauty of the human form even if I don't want to stick it in there." Adam waved his hand dismissively at himself, indicating to Andy to ignore his meandering thoughts; let a Lambert speak freely, he recalled about the truthful adage about his clan, and be prepared to listen for a very long time.

"But what I saw most of all," his voice went soft and sympathetic. What he had seen in Neal's eyes that morning was something to be cherished by Andy, celebrated; not overlooked. "Was how much he cared for you. Enough to risk speaking up and asking how you were...enough to blow my head off if I didn't give him the right answer." Andy's eyes still stared straight ahead but they no longer looked at Adam, his mind focusing on memories, of gentle touches and smiles, of days shared that felt like lifetimes. "It was all in his eyes, Andy, he couldn't hide it; he loves you." He couldn't tell if Andy believed him or not, the outlaw too deep in his own mind to read the expression on his face, but Adam knew the thoughts had been planted in that head of his. Adam gave a warm smile; he would figure it out on his own, he just needed a little push. "And I can tell, right from where I'm sitting...you love him, too."

The look he gave Andy was all business: tight-lipped and confident, Adam was an expert at renting out affection and he knew the genuine article when he saw it. But Andy's contemplative gaze turned southward again, dropping down until his eyes closed, the pain he felt not in his limbs but from within. He didn't know what he felt for Neal, reluctant to define it in terms so commonly used for schoolage sweethearts or star-crossed lovers; love was what David had with Kelly, what Adam had with Kris. What Andy had with Neal was worlds different from all of it.

It was something he had felt since he was fifteen and he knew the prospect of leaving Tulsa without Neal would have crushed him; but it had heightened, intensified, until he knew without thinking that he would do anything in the world just to coax out the Dr.'s rare, genuine smile. It had crept up on him throughout the years, like the shadows among which he blended during a heist, each year, each moment adding to the whole. It was just as much about how good Neal felt beside him as he felt _inside_ him; his heart didn't ache for him now because Andy wanted anything physical, he just needed Neal's presence and to know that no matter what end the Kings may find, either in the history books or in a shallow grave, he and Neal would always ride together.

The words slipped from his lips like a secret; he whispered them so softly Adam had to strain to hear. "I just need to _be_ with him."

He ducked his head low, a fringe of hair shielding his eyes from view, the emotions swirling in his dark brown eyes belonging to Andy and Andy only, Adam clearly refused an invitation. Adam loved animated conversation but despised talking to a human equivalent of a shuttered gate; he knew their talk was over, and perhaps now the outlaw's silence was a quiet reflection on Adam's words and his own feelings for Neal. He sure hoped Andy learned something about himself from all this.

Adam rose to his feet, declaring he had to relieve himself louder than necessary so that Andy would have some time alone with his thoughts. As he reached the door to the shack he looked over his shoulder, watching one last time how Andy trailed the hand of his good arm along his right wrist, wishing the flesh he felt underneath his own touch belonged to the man whose unspoken name was on his lips.

_Figure it out, old boy,_ Adam thought, pangs of sympathy edging into his chest. _You'll never feel right if you don't._

Before he could make a path out of the doorway, Adam saw the approaching figures quickly advancing on horizon line, so silent not a soul would have heard them ride. His eyes widened as their features came into focus, the man riding next to Kris's familiar frame strong and confident in the saddle, the calm his horse maintained differing from his stern, set jaw and the tight grip on the reins. Even in the fading lights of the evening, the small fire in the cabin lighting the surrounding area like a beacon, Adam could tell he had met this man once before.

"Not expecting to see you again so soon, Mr. Cook," he said, the bravado in his voice hiding the tinge of fear over seeing David ride alongside Kris; he had learned early in his life as the owner of a brothel that pleasantries and discretion were the names of the game. He looked over to Kris with an expectant expression on his face; this had not been part of their plan, and he hoped nothing had gone awry. "Kris--"

"It's fine, Adam," he answered quickly, dismounting his horse and placing a reassuring, friendly hand on Adam's shoulder. "He just wants to see Andy. Make sure everything's on the level." Kris leaned in, his voice dropping low as David tied Sugarfoot to a hitching post, his eyes scanning the landscape with what little light followed them back to the cabin. "Everything _is_ on the level, right?"

"He's doing better," Adam said, his voice equally as low. "Far off from recovered, but he's not gonna die on us, or on them." He paused for a second, his brow furrowing in thought; Kris never liked that expression of Adam's, it always meant some scheme was running through his head. "He's kinda in existential contemplation right now, but I'm sure it'll be fine to go in and check on him."

The deputy raised an eyebrow: he had asked Adam to make sure Andy didn't escape or die while he met with the Kings, not send him off to think about life, love, and the universe. "Adam..." he chided, though the warning appeared to be given too late.

Nonplussed, Adam shrugged, finding nothing out of the ordinary with harboring a wounded outlaw and convincing him to reflect upon his innermost feelings. "He needed a little push," he explained; from the deep denial of his feelings that Adam saw on Andy's face when confronted with them, that little push was more of a full-blown shove in the right direction. "Can't let them run off being clueless and lovesick for the rest of their lives."

Kris opened his mouth to protest that Adam was getting too involved in the personal lives of outlaws, when David called to them from the door. "You two go in first," he ordered, eager to get into the shack but his doubts waylaid him, his distrust easily convincing him a barrage of posse bullets could greet him inside. But his fears were left unfounded when Kris and Adam dutifully came to the door, entering first, the light from the fire casting everything in a clandestine glow as David followed. He shielded his eyes with a palm over his brow, his stare acclimating to the light, before he cast his gaze on the ramshackle bed in the cabin and the familiar figure atop it.

The relieved, almost elated laugh he heard from Andy was a welcome sound, just as his own presence was a sight for the other man's sore eyes. "Oh _man,_ " Andy said, his eyes wide but from relief. "Never thought I'd be so happy to see your ugly mug, Cook!"

David would have been lying if he said he also didn't feel an immense relief upon seeing Andy, bloodied and weak but alive, and hearing the familiar baritone voice that could have been lost forever. "You know I can't compete with that face," he motioned towards Andy, their levity masking the gravity of the situation, allowing them to laugh and enjoy their reunion, if only for a moment.

But a moment was all it would last, David's face growing grim as the chuckle rising from Andy's gut turned into a painful wince. He knew Andy controlled his expressions with the discipline of a soldier, never let anyone who wasn't close to him get any insight into his thoughts, his feelings. His injury must have been unbearable, David thought. "How are you holding up?" he asked, nodding his chin at the dried blood on Andy's right shoulder, the bandages peeking out from the hole left by the bullet. It had been miraculous none of the Kings had been shot all these years in their line of work, David surmised, and now that it had actually happened he realized how unprepared they all were for the downside to being an outlaw.

Andy groaned, his mouth naturally curving into a frown. "I'm as good as I can be," he admitted, shifting uncomfortably on the bed as three pairs of eyes scrutinized him, still uncomfortable with being the center of attention. "Hurts like hell, but it's only been a few days. But I'm alive, and I'm fed--though, no offense, Kris, you're a terrible cook," he looked over to Kris and Adam in the corner of the room, who attempted and failed at trying to look like they weren't listening to the conversation. "Never thought any food would ever make me miss Joey's damn beans."

The look on David's face--teeth gnawing on his bottom lip anxiously, hazel eyes that stared into Andy now as cold and gray as the retreating storm clouds--told his friend this was taking its toll on all the Kings, including their leader. He asked about Andy's well-being not as a leader leveraging a dangerous agreement with a lawman, but as a concerned friend.

"You look like shit," were the words that came out, but the wavering tone in David's voice revealed his fear.

"I _feel_ like shit," Andy admitted, letting go of a collected facade and accepting his pain, David a willing recipient of his grievances. He surely wasn't going to deny a bullet wound hurt more than any other injury he ever faced before, his shoulder healing far too slowly and his jailer being far too stingy with his stores of liquor to dull the pain. Andy's face grew serious as he stared at David with large, honest eyes; he knew for all the pain he felt now, it could have been much worse, leaving him dead and alone on a cold jailhouse floor, his life drained from him. He had to be grateful that he could, feel anything at all.

He nodded his chin towards the pair in the corner, shooting them a thankful glance; he knew exactly who to be grateful towards for these days, for life that could have been ended. "They saved my life," he told David, making sure he knew Kris Allen and Adam Lambert were trustworthy men; he had a very good feeling David would hesitate to trust them otherwise. "I...wouldn't be here if it wasn't for them."

David glanced in their direction, his gaze still harsh but his thoughts silently thanking them for his friend's safe return. It was not only Andy that owed Kris and Adam a debt of gratitude; all of the Kings owed that to them. Even if David did not trust or particularly like lawmen, he would respect _this_ lawman. "And their plan?" he asked Andy, raising an eyebrow.

"Is my plan." With all due credit to the two men of Hope, Kris being smart as a whip and Adam having well enough drive to get rid of Danny Gokey, they would have never conceived of solving the problem of the ambitious sheriff in such a way without Andy's help. It took a member of an outlaw gang to show Kris and Adam the darker side to politics in this wild West. "It's solid, Dave; they want something, we want something. And so far they've held up their part of the bargain...so should we. They just want to make their town better." Giving a weak smile in Kris's direction, Andy repeated some of the first words he had said to him, long forgotten in the crucial days of recovery. "They're good guys."

But David still looked hesitant to trust them, particularly Kris, who was as wary of the outlaw as the outlaw was of him. David Cook was a known robber, a murderer; he had stolen from Hope's very own bank merely days ago, terrorizing the banker and putting the townspeople, including Kris, into a fearful frenzy over the Kings. Was allying himself with an outlaw feared and hated by his town irresponsible? And David's own hatred of lawmen was still raging within him, his memories and his sentimental heart never allowing himself to forget the wrongs done to him by a man whose twisted view of the law cost David his family.

Reading the expression on his face, Andy interrupted David's stream of thoughts. "You're gonna want to say yes."

"I planned on it," was David's snappish retort; even from his fellow King he didn't appreciate orders, much less being told what he would _want_ to do. "We'll just scare him off; it won't be a problem."

"Don't you kill him," Andy warned, his voice rarely this stern. His thoughts drifted to Neal, the expert sharpshooter who could hit any target he so much as gave a passing glance; Andy knew the deadliness of his bullets and the viciousness he was capable of when doling them out. "And...don't let anyone else kill him, either."

Thoroughly confused, David's brow furrowed. Adam had mentioned they wanted no trouble from the Kings when they had met along the trail this morning; Kris had stressed their agreement with Andy that the Kings would not resort to murder. "Why would we want to kill him?"

But the bitter smile on Andy's lips told him their grudge-free perspective of Hope was to change soon, and the simple request not to murder the man they must drive away would be much more difficult to complete than David imagined. "Gokey? The sheriff?" Andy couldn't even begin to hide the disgust in his voice, the throbbing pain in his shoulder a reminder of his dismissal of the sheriff as harmless, and how wrong he discovered himself to be. " _He's_ the one who shot me."

If David had been shocked it did not register on his face, the metered arch of an eyebrow the only indication he had even listened. But the thoughts inside his head were churning with the new information, battling against his own instinct to take down the sheriff that had threatened his Kings, his family. He had to think like the leader of those men and not the revenge-bent youth he had been with responsibilities only to the dead. If ridding the town of their sheriff problem--alive--was the best option for the Kings, David had to take it. David didn't even want to imagine what restraint Neal would have to muster for the same pledge.

"You're right," he said, his voice even, if a bit choked from tempering his anger. "It will be tough not killing him."

Finally the deputy spoke up, displeased with where this conversation was going. "Now, you _said_ you wouldn't hurt him," he reminded them, hoping these new developments didn't change the outlaw's mind on a whim.

Andy opened his mouth to remind Kris that they agreed Gokey would not be _killed_ in the arrangement; he could not, nor could he ever, ensure that he'd leave town unscathed. But David beat him to the punch, addressing Kris for the first time since they entered the shack. "We rob banks, Deputy Allen," he said, the tone in his voice quite different from what he had used to speak with Andy. "Contrary to what you might believe about us, we don't murder for the hell of it. And just like you, if I give my word on something, I aim to keep it." Effectively silencing any further protests from the deputy, who stared back at David with a calm understanding, he returned his attentions to Andy, a tinge of sadness in his voice, its tone softer as he addressed a topic close to both of them. "But it won't be easy keeping this from Neal."

Hearing the name alone brought Andy's thoughts back to his reflections before David had walked in the door, his mind on the words Adam had said, the observations he had made. All of these years Andy had spent his time perfecting his craft, learning how to use what he saw and heard to his advantage; all this time he had looked everywhere, observed everyone but himself. As Kris, Adam, and David hashed out the details of the arrangement--where, when, and how the Kings would put an end to Danny Gokey's tenure as sheriff--he realized how much he yearned for Neal, for just his presence and his reassuring words, for his _scent_. His feelings were so intense they were rekindled with just his name, one thought and one utterance leaving Andy sick with longing.

All these years and he hadn't seen it, hadn't realized the connection they shared--stronger than brothers, deeper than blood--was this kind of love. He couldn't believe it took him a bullet and a brothel owner to figure it out.

"Can you tell him something?" he asked, snapping out of his contemplation just as David was about to leave. "Can...can you say something from me?"

Automatically David nodded, never thinking to deny his men--his friends--that kind of connection. Neal would scowl at him, scorned and irritated, if David brought no news back about Andy. He would be doing a disservice to the Dr. if he gave him nothing to hold onto, to ease his worries. "Of course," he said. "Anything."

There were so many words Andy wished to say, so many thoughts and emotions he had over the past few days, the past eight years, that he had never spoken to Neal. But nothing his mind could formulate was enough, the words falling short of the desire, emotions previously expressed through touches and breaths impossible to translate into speech. But when his eyes met with David's a smile played upon his face, eyes shining with a new vigor they did not have since the shooting, and perhaps had never possessed before. If Andy had the words to give to him, any words at all, Neal would understand; it would be a taste of what was to come for both of them, a glimpse that they would have the rest of their lives for words. "Tell him I'm still breathing."


	23. Chapter 23

_"I can't see how a fellow like him can expect any clemency from me." - Governor Lew Wallace, on Billy the Kid's request for amnesty for his crimes_

 

Kris didn't like how damned _quiet_ it was up there.

He leaned against the exterior wall of the house, the shadows and the cloudy, moonless sky hiding him from prying eyes stumbling to their own homesteads after another raucous night at the Lambert Inn. He wondered if any of those merrymakers, one of the inn's colorful residents or a well-paying visitor, had noticed that the owner of the inn, usually at the very center of the festivities, had been missing all evening.

After ensuring Andy's treatment by the deputy at the shack, David had asked Kris to guide the Kings along the outskirts of town towards Danny Gokey's homestead, though Kris perceived it as a request and not an order, their earned respect for one another more powerful than their mutual distrust. Still wary that a heavily-armed ambush could await them, the outlaws insisted on the deputy's escort until they reached the house, a newly constructed two-story home far too large and imposing on Hope's horizon for only one man to reside. Working on what shreds of good faith David retained, Kris promised he would leave once the outlaws entered, returning to the old miner's cabin for a quick exchange once the deed was done. Danny would be gone or going; Andy would be rightfully back with the Kings. But Kris wouldn't ease his worry until all was right with his town.

Making sure the Kings lived up to their agreement and did the job without bloodshed--and that they did it at all--Kris lingered outside once the others disappeared inside the house. He made not a sound as he waited, his ears attempting to glean any information from the thick silence of the night, not nearly as skilled an observer as he discovered Hope's prisoner to be. The past few days had skewed his stringent perceptions of the evil and goodness in every soul he thought he understood: lawmen were good people, willing to fight and die to enforce order, just as outlaws were evil men below morals, deceitful and vicious with no regard for human life. But then one of those good men shot someone for his own interests, a sympathetic young man whom Kris befriended before he knew he was an outlaw. His world was no longer about blindly upholding the law, and perhaps it never should have been; Adam, a gleeful conscientious objector himself, always said morality was a gray area, and a man's reputation should never take precedence over what was in his heart.

Not every lawman was as principled as he, and not every outlaw without virtue or merit. Kris kept repeating this to himself in his head, expecting to believe it well enough to leave the Kings to their own devices and make their infamy work for them.

His breath caught in his throat as he heard the sound of a door bang against its hinges, followed by the tinkling of broken glass and the unmistakable, cowardly cry of Danny Gokey from an upstairs window. Kris waited for the inevitable but it thankfully never came; he finally let the breath out in a relieved sigh when he heard mumbles, unintelligible words he assumed would be threats, but no gunshots at all. He could rest easy on his journey back to the cabin; the Kings had kept their word.

Returning to his horse and beginning the trek, hoping the outlaws would not notice his delay, Kris reconsidered his wavering levels of trust in the Kings, reminding himself that unlike his facetiously virtuous boss, David Cook had yet to deceive him. He left Gokey's fate in their hands, wondering if David would ever let slip the sheriff's role in nearly killing Andy to the rest of their gang, never sticking around to realize from Danny's screams that Neal already knew.

***

_Wake up._ Neal's sneer was only inches from the sleeping face, who had no idea what trouble awaited him once he opened his eyes. Not making a sound, Neal waited impatiently for the sheriff to awaken on his own; he wanted to see the split second of peace and cockiness in his eyes before Gokey believed he was about to die. But it didn't mean he wanted to wait  long for it. _Come on, damn you. Wake. Up._

The slamming of the bedroom door as the Kings moved into position finally jarred Gokey awake, his head stirring, sleepy and disoriented, until he felt the hot growl of breath on his face and realized he wasn't alone.

Danny let out a startled shout as he opened his eyes to the intruders, his vision blurry without his glasses but his memory compensated for what his eyes could not see. The blond head before him, invading his personal space, was not an unknown. The stretched holes in his earlobes and the silver rings threaded through his lip, glinting menacingly even in the dark of night, were recognizable to any lawman paying attention to the wanted posters circling for years throughout the West. But what stayed in Gokey's mind were the piercing blue eyes that stared him down outside Hope's bank doors, cold and ruthless, eyeing Gokey and determining his fate. Those eyes had scrutinized him the morning of the robbery, allowed him to live as the outlaws walked away; the same eyes stared at him again now, a barely-contained fire behind them, and Gokey knew this time he wouldn't be so lucky.

He felt a pressure at his neck, one tattooed hand of the Dr. holding him down against the bed by the shoulder joint, the other gripping like a vice against his right wrist. Danny couldn't struggle, couldn't move even if he wanted to. Neal warned him with a low, even tone, something dark and ugly hiding in his mind, behind gritted teeth, that made Kyle and even David lingering at the back of the room fearful of what he might do. "Don't. Scream."

Naturally, Gokey being a good and obedient man who knew when to keep his mouth shut, shrieked in terror and looked to rouse the entire town with just his screams to come to his aid. "Help! Help!" he shouted over and over, not realizing he was too far from town for anyone to hear his cries. Gokey was not thinking, couldn't possibly _begin_ to think with an outlaw in his face, eyes narrowed with rage and lips curving into a sneer that could not hide his disgust. He wished he could call for his deputy to fix his dilemma, or possibly even call for his mother.

Neal's jaw clenched, revolted at the pitiful cries for help coming from underneath him; he thought that the sheriff would at least have an ounce of self-respect to take this punishment and die like a man. But from what David had told him, perhaps that was too much to ask. With a grim determination and a complete lack of remorse--hell, Neal had to stop himself from grinning in satisfaction--the hand at Gokey's wrist inched downward, making a firm grip on the index finger, Gokey too occupied with his own screams to notice. A squeeze, a twist, and a sickening _crack_ of bone that resounded louder in the bedroom than Danny's shouts, and the sheriff finally did take notice, falling silent and heeding Neal's first warning a few moments too late.

"Fine, scream all you want," Neal compromised with a dark irony to his tone, feeling the mangled trigger finger in his grip, nerves twitching, joints turned the wrong way. He might not have prevented Gokey from shooting his first victim, but he certainly stopped him from being able to shoot anyone ever again. "It's not gonna do you any good."

The pain shooting up Gokey's arm and coursing through his body worked as an effective paralyzer, shocking him still for fear of what else Neal Tiemann might break if he crosses him again. His eyes darted to the rest of the room, his familiar, isolated, happy homestead invaded by outlaws, two others flanking the bedroom door with faces as stony and unforgiving as the Dr.'s. He would find no help here. He was at the complete mercy--a term not without its ironies that night--of the Kings.

He tried to look away, tried to squeeze his eyes tight enough so he could block out the pain, wake up to find it was all a dream. But Neal shook Gokey back to attention, refusing to let him succumb to the pain, to block out the terror he was about to inflict. He never gave Andy the privilege to ignore what Gokey had put him through; Neal would only treat him in kind. Danny whimpered as Neal glowered over him, finally acknowledging his due fate.

 _Pathetic,_ Neal thought with disgust, remembering how he had spared Gokey when they had faced each other that one morning, believing without a revolver and without any courage in him the sheriff would be harmless. Neal underestimated him; they all had. It was a pity David had made that goodwill compromise with the deputy not to kill Danny Gokey that night; had he not expressly forbid Neal from murder, it would have been the Dr.'s pleasure.

"I...I know who you are," Danny finally eked out, a fearful, wavering rasp of a voice, a stark contrast from his earlier screams.

The look he received from Neal was less than encouraging; his blue eyes grew dark with rage, tempering his anger with a tighter grip on Gokey's shoulder joint, a thumb digging in only inches from his windpipe. This visit to the sheriff wasn't supposed to be personal, but every time he looked at Gokey Neal thought of him pulling the trigger on Andy, _his_ Andy, and he wished he could make this as personal and painful as it could get.

He growled his response, his temper controlled only by the promise he had made to David that, so long as Danny Gokey left Hope alive, Neal could be in charge of the confrontation. "Then you know why we're here."

Looking on with a permissive expression on his face, David waited patiently at the back corner of the room with Kyle, standing prominently enough in what dim light the evening provided for Gokey to still perceive him as a threat, but far enough away from the sheriff's bed to give Neal a wide berth. Though both Kris and Andy had told David not to reveal Gokey's involvement in the shooting to Neal, fearing the Dr.'s rage would get the best of him, it would have been impossible to keep that secret to himself; not when Neal was hurting, not when his best friend was begging for answers. David not only wanted Neal to know exactly who and why they were in this mess in the first place; he relished the thought of unleashing the Dr. on Danny Gokey, to make him pay for what he did to Andy with the passion and rage only a wounded man's lover could muster. He gave a silent note of gratitude to fate for allowing only David to see the extent of Andy's injuries, wounds and weakness he did not dare relay back to Neal before their confrontation. If the Dr. had known the damage Gokey's bullet had done, the sheriff would have never stepped out of that bedroom alive.

As it were, Danny knew of no such agreement to merely scare him, not kill him, and was quite convinced that the outlaws were in his bedroom that night to conduct the latter. His heart pounded in his ears as his pulse began to race, his eyes filling up with terrified tears. "Pl-please don't kill me," he pleaded, his lower lip quivering as he begged for life from three men who had no problem taking it. Gokey knew he had almost no chance of being spared, the malice in Neal's eyes alone dangerous enough to kill. But he just couldn't accept his death like this; not now, when Santa Fe was just about to bring its bevy of lawmen and newspaper reporters to make Danny an instant star and a hero. The Kings were going to make Danny Gokey famous if he had his way, but now the same men were going to take it all away. "I'll do anything, please..." The tears ran freely down his face, blurring his vision until all he saw was Neal's anger in his eyes and the sneer on his lips. "I don't want to die..."

It broke something inside of Neal, hitting him suddenly and releasing the anger like a geyser, erupting to the surface in hot, violent bursts. "Is this what you expected him to do?" He gave Gokey another shake, harder than before, his free hand clamping around Gokey's other shoulder, threateningly close to gripping his throat.

"Did you want him to cry and beg for his life? So you could feel fucking superior?" Neal's voice grew louder, shouting into Gokey's face with abandon, not giving a damn about stealth or Gokey's well-being. The images from his tortured imagination kept haunting him, picturing Andy wounded, dying, the painful thoughts attacking his mind since the moment the Kings had heard the news. That night David gave Neal a face to the pain, a name to the perpetrator who had so quickly and easily threatened to tear the Kings apart. His grip grew tighter, hands inching closer towards each other, Gokey's neck in between Neal's palms; Danny's eyes grew wide with fear, too terrified to even breathe. "Did you want him to suffer, to be afraid to die? 'Cause I can make you suffer, too--"

A hand fell onto Neal's shoulder, its presence a silent reminder that he promised not to take this confrontation too far. When Neal looked back he spied David standing next to him, the hand acting both to stabilize the sharpshooter as well as warn him. He knew he was passing the point of intimidation but he didn't care, his anger stoked and blazing, his need for revenge stronger than his desire to keep his word. It took a tighter grip of that hand on his shoulder, David's quiet insistence that Neal not strangle the sheriff, for Neal to finally heed the warning, loosening his grip but keeping his hands on Danny's shoulders, reminding him the threat was still very real.

"You _should_ die," Neal spat the words at Gokey, the sneer still on his lips, but the reality of those words was abated for now, Gokey's life spared by a plot and a promise. If they were going to complete this agreement, the sheriff had to merely be scared, not murdered. Neal wanted revenge, could taste the blood and smell death waiting in the air...but he wanted Andy back more. After what he had realized last night, he _needed_ him back. "You should be dragged out of this town by your knees; tied to the back of a stagecoach, dropped in the desert and left to rot. Bet the buzzards wouldn't even eat your yellow hide."

He leaned in again when David returned to his position near the door, allowing Neal to once again take the reins so long as he did not cross that line from intimidation to murder. A broken finger was collateral damage in their line of work; a broken neck would be more difficult to explain. "You're no sheriff," Neal seethed. "You don't give a damn about this town, only what you can leech from it." If there was one element of this grudge between Hope's sheriff and his deputy that Neal could understand, it was Gokey's lack of loyalty to the town, the responsibility he held, the trust he had squandered. He couldn't imagine what kind of a man one could be if he was not loyal.

"So we're giving you one chance," Neal heard the clicking sound of guns being cocked behind him, David's trusted revolver and Kyle's twin pistols readying themselves for a firefight. They had said they wouldn't kill Gokey, and they didn't plan to; but Kyle, who felt more like an outlaw and an adult in the past few days than he had been his entire life, reminded Neal and David there was nothing more intimidating than staring down the business end of an outlaw's gun. Just as the Kid had predicted, Danny let out a squeak at the sound, the undignified noise the loudest he would allow himself in current company. "You better get gone...while the gettin's good."

Gokey hesitated, shallow breaths catching in his throat, darting, desperate eyes stilled as they stared at Neal. Even the beads of sweat on his forehead seemed to fight the will of gravity, remaining at a standstill as they dripped down his face. He couldn't leave, not now; not when he had sent for the best judge in Santa Fe and all the journalists he could rouse from their inked bylines. Danny knew that stranger lying in the jail cell was going to be his ticket to fame in New Mexico, even the entire West, and this terrifying clandestine meeting was proof of it. Danny couldn't imagine packing up and leaving town when praise and popularity were about to be showered down upon him.

That hesitation cost him dearly.

Yanking him up by the collarbone, Neal pulled back his arm, balling his hand into a fist and let it fly, punching Gokey squarely in the jaw, dislodging a molar and shooting pain through Gokey's skull. Neal could accept letting the sheriff flee town, but it certainly wouldn't be a painless journey. "Oh, you're gonna leave," he divined Danny's thoughts as the sheriff let out a pained groan, an instinctive right hand reaching up to nurse his wounded jaw a second before his nerves reminded him of the injury Neal had inflicted there as well. "We'll make sure of it. You wronged us once; you won't cross us again."

The dark tone of Neal's voice should have been enough to convince Gokey to take the Kings's advice and leave. But still there was hesitation in his eyes, the ego boost he had received from his first successful arrest telling him to ignore Neal, that once the legal and media circus came into town there would be no way for the outlaws to make good on their threat without being captured themselves. Neal leaned in, seething through clenched teeth; he did not like being ignored. "If you don't," he warned, wishing he could do more than merely threaten the sheriff into submission. "This house; burned to ashes. The bank, your precious sheriff's office...everything. Every man, woman, child in your damned town, we'll throw them into the pit. We'll burn this town right off the map. Make the Alamo look like a fucking tea party."

A sadistic smile spread across Neal's face as Gokey's eyes widened; the sheriff was less affected by the threat of a massacre in Hope, of destroying the town and killing all its inhabitants, as he was affected by Neal's next condition. "And we'd make sure every soul in the West knew...it was all because one stubborn, stupid sheriff wouldn't get when the gettin' was good."

Danny gasped; he'd have a target on his back as large as if he himself had perpetrated the massacre. He couldn't decipher if the Kings were bluffing but he had not the stomach to test it. He scrambled up to a sitting position in bed, desperately inching himself away from Neal and his threats. By shooting the retreating outlaw that night Danny had made this grudge personal, and while he had heard the many stories of lawmen cut down by the Kings, it had all been business as usual; he had no idea how ruthless they could get once the threat was personal.

"And if you breathe a word of this night to anyone," it was a stipulation Neal decided on the fly, realizing the attention-grabbing Gokey would probably tell any ears that would listen about how he confronted the Kings and survived. David Cook wasn't the only King who could make snap decisions in the heat of the moment. "And we will know if you do..." He took hold of Danny's right hand again, adding pressure onto the already shattered bones of his index finger; the morbid satisfaction of watching Gokey's face contort in pain, a silent scream as his eyes squinted shut, was only a fraction of the torture Neal truly wanted to put him through. "Then you'll find out how it feels to have the rest of your bones broken, too."

The moment Neal released his grip on the sorry sheriff, stepping away from the bed with a glower that could still ignite timber into flames, Danny rushed to his feet, the pain fueling his instinct for survival. He saw now the only way to get out of this alive _was_ to get out--and the quicker, the better. Whimpering all the way, Danny rushed out the bedroom door and down the stairs in nothing but his woolen longjohns and boots, fortunate enough to grab his glasses on the way down. He escaped into the night, wishing to get as far away from the deadly, vengeful Kings as he could, knowing he was lucky to ride out of town with his life.

"Wow, look at him go!" exclaimed Kyle, peering out the window at the retreating man on horseback, Gokey letting out a gruesome, painful wail he had held in during the confrontation. "Bet he never rode so fast in his life."

He received no response; this had been a grim deed, and they learned over the years it was indecent to gloat over another man's life when it could have so easily been the life of one of their own. Neal had no intention of watching the disgraced sheriff flee; he wanted to wash his hands of him, get the stink of Gokey's ambition off his boots as soon as possible. He was the first one down the stairs and out the front door, eager to return to the miner's shack, his task incomplete until Andy was with him again. He wouldn't waste another second, another useless breath in this town until they were together.

Following his lead, Kyle quickly left his perch at the window, with David securing the rear. He gave one last look at Gokey's bedroom in the dark shadows of night; they had only been in there less than five minutes but what David had witnessed, the passion and ferocity with which Neal attacked, were unparalleled, more dangerous than he had ever been in heists. He had something he was fighting for now; it wasn't for fortune, not for his loyalty to the Kings, but for the love he held in his heart, the overwhelming desire to be with Andy again, no matter what the cost. David couldn't decide if what he had just witnessed was noble or scary, but he did know he was glad not to be on its receiving end.

As he moved to exit the bedroom and return to the shack to retrieve their missing member for good, something glinted in the corner of his eye, catching David's attention. Hanging upon the back of a desk chair was a leather vest, with a small tin star pinned to its front, tarnished but still shining. Badges like that only meant terrible things to David, attached to evil men with vicious intentions and less remorse than the worst of outlaws; they signified greed, corruption and ambition, just as Danny Gokey wielded its tarnished shine. But he had met one lawman who was the exception to the rule, who lived up to the standards that star was supposed to signify; a man who would bring that badge's value back to sterling, pristine condition.

With a soft smile playing on his lips, David picked up the vest and the badge along with it, figuring it might soon be put to good use.


	24. Chapter 24

_"I have literally lived in the saddle, have never known a day of perfect peace. It was one long, anxious, inexorable, eternal vigil." - Frank James, upon his surrender_

 

While the journey from the borders of Hope to the abandoned miner's shack was only a few miles, it felt like forever to trace the lightless paths leading them back, the minutes passing far too slowly for any of the Kings's liking. Neal and his Sixx kept silently threatening to break out into a gallop towards the cabin but David favored stealth over speed, especially since Kyle led a riderless Vera alongside his own horse, waiting for her master's return, unable to go any faster than a trot. His bones ached with restlessness every inch of the journey, Sixx stamping and snorting as he reflected his rider's tension. It wasn't until the shack came into sight over the horizon, a tiny orange glow from the open door, did any of the outlaws finally start to believe the ordeal in Hope was over.

Kris came out to meet them as they approached, the deputy and the leader of the Kings still keeping their guard up between one another, maintaining it more as mutual respect than precaution. There was nothing more to fear about their situation: they discovered both parties had their reasons, personal and deep, for keeping their arrangement; each man had his own drives and desires, and perhaps despite being on opposite sides of the law, they weren't so different after all.

David tossed a handful of fabric to the deputy as he dismounted, Kris's keen eyes noticing the glint of metal shining off of the leather before he caught it. "Gift for you, Allen," he said as Kris unfolded the vest, instantly identifiable to him as Danny Gokey's, the tin sheriff's star pinned on the breast wrapped almost like a present, and just as precious to him. He traced the edges of the badge with his finger, cool to the touch, a symbol of authority in the town that meant more than pride and fame; to Kris this badge was about responsibility, to the law itself as well as the people he was to protect.

"A good man once wore this badge," he said absently, remembering Sheriff Daughtry's friendly, easygoing approach, how Kris respected him; how the peacefulness of the town had been dismantled by Danny Gokey, his sly campaigning, his personal ambitions, and finally by a coward's bullet.

David's voice interrupted his thoughts, a single, plain nod from the outlaw indicating that while he did not know the man Kris spoke of, he understood the sentiment. "And a good man will wear it once again." The light cast across the muddy New Mexican sands was dim and against Kris's back, but even in the low light David could see a smile spread across the deputy's face, finally becoming the sheriff he always dreamed of to a town he would give his life for; a deputy no more.

But this did not solve the Kings's dilemma. "We've done our part," he said, a straight back and strong tone all business. "Now you make good on your end."

The sheriff's badge was indication enough that Danny Gokey was gone from the town of Hope, and with the threat of the Kings confronting him again, he would certainly never return. Kris made his way back to the cabin, a plane of light emanating from the open doorway, walking at a steady yet brisk pace, knowing the completion of their deal was the only knot tying together their truce.

Adam was waiting for him when he arrived, leaning against the doorframe, his attention on both the returning lawman and the outlaw making a shaky yet determined path to the outside world. "He wouldn't let me help him up," Adam explained with a shrug when he saw the expression on Kris's face; he hadn't been able to tell if Andy's insistence on walking alone to greet his friends was some unknown outlaw protocol, or his own stubbornness. Kris thought to himself that it was a little bit of both.

"If it means no longer having to listen to you babble on," came the voice from inside the cabin, Andy ambling slowly to the door, his body weak but his eyes sparkling with determination, urging his legs forward on will alone. "Then I'd gladly sprint from this place." A warm smile quickly followed the joke; the time Adam and Kris had spent with Andy--a prisoner, an innocent man, an outlaw all in the course of a few days--was an unexpected, but not unpleasant experience. Never would Kris regret saving the other man's life; never would Adam regret agreeing to help Kris reunite Andy with his people, returning a man to where, and with whom, he belonged.

And Andy himself, though the ever-present pain in his right shoulder would have said otherwise, had much to be grateful for. "I can't thank you enough," he said to the pair, a man so comfortable around other people's words he was having trouble expressing his own. "For the arm; for my _life_ , really." He looked over to Kris, badge in hand, knowing those hands had extracted the bullet seeking to sap the life from him, made sure he did not succumb to its intentions. As his gaze drifted over to Adam, Andy's reasons for gratitude shifted, from mere survival to something deeper, and just as important; for showing him the need to open his eyes, as well as his heart. "For...everything."

"You better get going," Kris said. "Don't want to keep them waiting."

"Don't want to keep _him_ waiting, either," Adam added in a quiet voice, his mouth smiling, his eyes knowing.

With one last nod of gratitude to the two men, Andy made his way towards the three men on the horizon, their faces cloaked in the shadows of pre-dawn but always unforgettable. Adam and Kris watched his retreating form, highligted in the flickering orange hues of the fire inside the shack, content as co-conspirators, working not for what was lawful but for what was right.

Kris snaked an arm around Adam's waist as Adam's arm wrapped around his shoulders; a natural fit. His mouth quirked to the side as he poked Adam in the ribs playfully with his other hand, the innkeeper staring a little too intensely at the outlaw's vanishing frame. "He's not still your type, is he?" he asked.

Leaning in and chuckling to himself, Adam pressed his lips against Kris's hairline, kohl-rimmed eyes wrinkling with laughter. He touched the sheriff's badge nestled in Kris's hands gingerly, watching it gleam in Kris's hold. "I like my men with a little more _authority_ ," he joked, feeling the happy vibrations of Kris's laugh as he kissed his brow, and then, tilting his head up by the chin, his grinning lips.

***

The clouds were lifting; the storm that drenched the countryside, over. The skies were still dark, the cresting of the sun over the horizon still an hour away, but the blank grayness overhead was gradually giving way to inky, deep hues of purple and blue, the desert sky as it was meant to be finally peeking through the gloom. The day's coming sunshine would mean to the farmer a chance for his crops to recover from the downpour; it would mean to the cowboy a dry journey with his cattle through the West, the desert sands and the rushing riverbeds soon returning to normal.

But the Kings watched the horizon for something quite different than the coming of the dawn.

A familiar head emerged on the horizon, dark, shaggy hair attached to an angular face; then neck, arms, body, until an entire Andy could be seen approaching, his pace metered but determined, his eyes on the three outlaws waiting for him. Any willpower and calm intent he had were lost to his own excitement, building inside of him with each step, spreading across his face in a tight-lipped smile. He broke out into a full grin when he could see faces with those figures steeped in shadows: intelligent, keen David, who couldn't conceal the smile half-hiding behind a well-placed palm; cheery, youthful Kyle, grin so wide and bright, if it got any bigger it'd knock his hat clean off his head. And Neal...quiet, thoughtful Neal, his silence mistaken by others as foreboding, but Andy knew it to be a sign of contemplation, the sharpshooter nervously biting his fingernails while he patiently waited. When he caught sight of Andy the hand dropped to his side, his lips parting in a silent, relieved sigh.

These faces...they were home to him. They were leading him back to where he needed to go.

David approached him first, his sly expression unable to hide the spark in his eyes, relieved and overjoyed that in the most crucial of operations, the Kings did not fail; they were, as much as he could control, intact, and alive. "You lucky bastard, you," he laughed, extending his arms wide to either side of him, embracing his own bravado. It was satisfaction enough to see the smile on Andy's face, to see him at all, and when he reached the shadow of the Kings David swatted away the friendly handshake Andy offered and swept him up in a bear hug.

"Watch the shoulder there, Dave," Andy chuckled, wrapping his good arm around David's shoulders and accepting the heartfelt welcome. He hid a grimace as David hugged him tighter but he didn't mind, the pain in his limbs overshadowed by the relief he felt in his heart over returning to the fold. David had mumbled something underneath the cover of his emotions, words of blame and fault and how they were never going to step foot inside a town like this again, he wouldn't allow it; but Andy shook his head, his arm reaching up to rap against David's skull playfully, literally knocking the guilt right out of him. They could squabble back and forth over taking the blame; but Andy wanted to celebrate being back with them, simply being _alive,_ rather than harping on what could have been.

Instead he whispered, "Thank you," so only David could hear, the emotion evident in his voice. David risked capture and death himself for Andy's return, and was forced to ally himself with the deputy to do so, the very type of man he despised. There was no blood between them; they battled alongside one another in gunfights like brothers, but as Andy knew well, even brothers could resort to desertion in desperate times. "I know this was hard; I know you could've run..."

As they pulled back from the embrace, with reassuring pats on Andy's good shoulder, David looked into his friend's eyes with the gaze of a man of conviction, who regretted much in his colored past but would never regret this. "We leave no man behind," he reminded Andy, his hand upon his shoulder acting like an anchor, tethering them like the bonds of outlaws, of friends. He gave one final squeeze of his hand before letting Andy move on, the contented yet anxious neigh of his beloved horse distracting him and leading him towards her guardian.

"Vera's a great ol' girl; came right back into camp, that's how we knew there was real trouble." Kyle's mouth went into an automatic run as Andy approached him and the chestnut mare, his cheeks flushing red from excitement; Vera wasn't the only one anxious about Andy's return. Kyle wasn't sure how to react, the excited whoops and hollers bubbling inside and daring to escape threatening to overshadow the calm, relieved reactions of his fellow outlaws; and an understated welcome might have seemed uncaring.

"She missed you," he said, turning towards the gentle beast and giving her an affectionate rub of his palm against her nose. When Kyle turned back Andy was smiling warmly, approaching closer, unsure of who between the two he was happier to see. The smile was infectious and Kyle couldn't help but match it, warding away some of the anxiety along with it. "I missed you."

Andy rolled his eyes, his smile growing wider; even after all these months on the dusty, dangerous trails with the Kings, even after this ordeal, the kid was the same as ever, his naive, caring charm never leaving him. The outlaw life hardened so many of them, boys barely old enough to grow hair on their faces turned into killers. It was a relief to see Kyle maintain his youthful exuberance, layered underneath the experience and maturity he gained, a fresh face underneath the startlingly fast growth of a new beard. Leaning over the last few inches, Andy pulled Kyle into a one-armed embrace, hooking his arm around the Californian's shoulders and giving an affectionate tousle of his hair as Kyle let out a squeak in surprise he would never admit to even years after the fact.

"You did good, kid," he said into Kyle's ear, small, understated words of gratitude Kyle had heard many times, but never did he cherish it so much as this. He had been thanked before like a hired hand, congratulated like a youth begging for his due praise. But that day, he thought as he returned the hug, letting go only when Vera nudged her head between them for her own welcome, the words were bestowed upon him like he was one of them; that day Kyle truly felt like a King.

When he broke away from Kyle's embrace it was the first time he saw him, though Andy knew without even thinking that he would be there; he would always be there. Those familiar blue eyes, menacing to most, warm and friendly to a precious few, and absolutely irreplaceable to one, had been following the path of the returning outlaw since he appeared above the horizon, as he walked over to David, then Kyle, and now to him. There was something different in that stare of his Andy noticed right away: a direct, bald-faced gaze right into Andy's eyes that hid nothing, eyes that were tired of holding back emotions, lips still with words they never spoke, never thought they _needed_ to speak, and a furrowed brow, creased ever so slightly, wondering to himself why the hell this feeling took so long.

Neal held his breath as Andy turned towards him, his legs slow and unsteady but taking strides as fast as they could carry him; it was a different feeling from the night before, when the air in his lungs was taken from him, stolen by surprise and sorrow. Now he felt the breath resting in his chest, simmering and waiting for the right moment to exhale, the pregnant pause before jumping from a precipice; the rush of adrenaline before knocking down a bank door. Neal couldn't even think of breathing: after what he had realized, what he had been blind to in his own heart, seeing Andy again and _knowing_ took his breath away.

No words were spoken, no need for thoughts held in the darkest moments before dawn. Neal waited for Andy's gradual approach, respecting the pride Andy would have in making his way towards him as well as merely taking in the sight of him, knowing this was real and he was _here_ , that Andy had sought to return to Neal as much as Neal wanted to get him back. There would be time later for the anger pricking at his fingertips over Andy's condition, an unseen but obvious wound to his right shoulder causing him to favor his left side. The damage done by the sheriff's bullet made Neal wish Danny Gokey left town with more than a broken finger and a bloody jaw.

But right now all Neal had the drive to dwell upon was the smile gracing Andy's face, softer than the one he gave David, an elegant understanding that was lacking when he grinned at Kyle; a smile that told Neal everything would be alright.

His arms reached out, hands touching the thick, depleting air between them, then fabric stiff with sweat and blood, then flesh--and that breath Neal had been holding was gone, lost in a sigh escaping into Andy's hair as they embraced, no injury or obstacle on Earth able any longer to keep them apart. The tension drained from Neal's body, his nerves playing upon the edge of a knife suddenly calmed, neutralized. He wrapped one arm around Andy's waist below his injured shoulder and the other above it, palms splayed out against the broad expanses of Andy's back, fingers pressing in and holding them there. Neal indulged himself with the feel of Andy in his arms, the weight and the warmth he had feared he could lose forever.

Andy closed his eyes in contentment when he felt Neal's arms wrap around his frame, a sensation he had wished for during the lonely and terrifying nights in the jail cell, when he never knew if the moments grasping onto life on the cold, bloody ground would be his last. Resting his chin on Neal's shoulder he let himself be pulled in tighter to Neal's body, that familiar frame he had slept beside for so many years, held close to him, inside him in fits of passion he never realized were love until it was almost too late.

Desire flared up inside him to touch, to hold Neal instead of only being held, and his good hand came up to Neal's shoulders, his neck, until it rested at the back of Neal's head, fingers threading into blond hair, a strong, sure grip making sure Andy's limbs did not tremble from relief. He let out a sigh, his smile unconsciously widening, as Neal pressed his face to the skin at Andy's neck, his lips not kissing, teeth not imprinting lustful bites into the flesh, but merely being there, reveling in the moment, holding it as close to him as their bodies. Their touches were not for physical pleasure, what they had believed was their sole reason for their closeness; it was their history, embracing every moment of their intimacy over the years they had known each other, making up for lost time.

They wished the moment could last forever; that this marked the end of their ignorance, their damn stubbornness to accept love, and they could take their time to live in this relief aching in their bones. But despite this reunion, something was off; the tiny, fleeting thought in Andy's mind turned into a crease of his brow, a frown on his face. Without moving from Neal's tight and welcome embrace he looked around, his large brown eyes shifting from one side to the other, before asking.

"...Where's Joey?"

***

The Kings's exodus from Hope began at a slow pace, mindful of Andy's injuries and fatigue, though a grateful and humble Andy protested for miles that he was just fine and deserved no special treatment. David was glad to put whatever distance they could between them and the deceivingly innocent town, convinced that should he ever step foot in Hope again, hell even all of New Mexico, it would be too soon. Andy reminded him that, while he never planned to reminisce on his stay in the sheriff's accommodations, there were still good people in Hope, people he had trusted with his life and might very well consider to entrust it again. Neal gave one look back at the town fading off in the distance, a place that had the possibility to take more from him than he ever realized he had, and wondered if he would ever get the chance to thank the good men in that town for all they had done.

But Kyle's thoughts, hidden by a half-smile that revealed nothing of the inner workings of his mind--a trick he had picked up during his time with the Kings, he sure didn't have it in him beforehand--were on the outlaws' path, reaching for the sun and what lay ahead.

Traveling westward, decidedly the opposite direction in which they had seen Danny Gokey flee the previous night, the four men trudged on, unperturbed by the emerging sun bearing down upon them with a vengeance, making up for lost time hidden away behind the storm clouds. As they rode on, with no other destination but away from Hope, their horses' hooves trampled desert weeds and flowers sprouting underfoot, the inevitable product of deluges within the desert, proving the ground below their feet was not dead, merely dormant. Kyle marveled at the different, colorful flowers blooming quickly all around them: cactus blossoms opening delicately among spiny, threatening thorns; bright, cheery yellow goldenweeds emulating the sun, bursts of celestial color down on Earth. It was by no means the lush, green meadows of his California home, but they brightened his mood more than he thought possible, suddenly realizing the unconscious toll living in the deserts of the West had on his well-being.

Barely a word was spoken for hours as they rode, David leading the gang with his eyes on the horizon and his thoughts on the future; Andy, stubbornly refusing to let weakness show through; Neal naturally quiet, his aloof appearance returning once the four set on their way; and Kyle, holding up the rear of their convoy, focusing his mind more on the living desert opening up to them than conjuring small talk. There was something hanging in the air among them, a notion left unsaid ever since the relieved joy of reunion dissipated and allowed this unsettled, unspoken business replace it. David couldn't place a finger on it, no one could, until the sun had completed its path across the sky and sunk down to the landscape to rest, with the Kings aiming to follow.

"The old girl's beat," Kyle announced to David, a lead in each hand as he guided two of the horses back to camp, Sugarfoot and Gangles having drank their fill in a nearby stream. "Tired, but not exhausted. Had a rough time getting her to walk away from that pretty riverbed, let me tell you!"

It had taken a long time to ferry the horses back and forth from the stream, David had noted that once the sun dipped down to its slumber for the night, leaving trails of crimson and lavender racing across the sky; but he didn't suspect it was any act of stubborn laziness on Sugarfoot's part that delayed them. Even though David had told Kyle the responsibility to water the horses need not be his tonight, especially after searching the desolate area for stray pieces of wood and cow chips to start their fire, the young Californian insisted, and hurried on his way. David smiled but said nothing; the sprig of Autumn Sage blossoms tucked into the pocket of Kyle's shirt was the cause for his delay, and not the fatigue of the horses.

Instead he pointed towards the fire, blazing now due to David's watchful eye, indicating that Kyle should take a rest of his own; he had been working hard since the Kings stopped for the night, too hard, his fervor messy, haphazard; almost apologetic. Kyle refused, an excuse on the tip of his tongue, and so David motioned again for him to sit down next to him, the sterner expression on his face marking that this time it was a request and not a suggestion.

"You don't need to work so hard, kid," David chuckled, the nickname no longer as fitting as it used to be, but it was a comfort for David to use as well as for Kyle to hear. "It's just us. No need to impress anymore."

Kyle shrugged, his cheeks blushing as he ran an anxious hand through his hair. He had picked up the methods to hiding his emotions, David mused, but it appeared he still wasn't very _good_ at it. "Not trying to impress," he protested. "Just..." Kyle trailed off, a guilty gaze scanning their tiny encampment. He had gathered the fuel for a blazing fire, and set about making a soup from their remaining supplies, as well as tending the tired horses and organizing the camp--more than he was usually held responsible for, even by his own standards. Perhaps he had been compensating for the distressing thoughts he had bottled inside on their ride, mutinous against the Kings, and against his lifelong dreams.

The brightly colored blossoms in his shirt pocket caught his eye, faint and fading now from the dying light but their vibrancy was still visible by firelight. He smiled, nerves and his own guilt calming; perhaps those dreams had been changing the past few months, and Kyle changed along with them.

David watched the light return to Kyle's face, the pluck and enthusiasm he had seen that first night when the outlaws had to decide whether to kill the greenhorn or make him one of their own. Of all things David was glad he never lost that spark, just as he was glad none of them ever lost their lives, nor each other. "I don't think I like the desert," Kyle laughed, throwing up his hands in amused defeat. "It's dry, and everything looks mighty dead most days of the year; it's killin' Gangles, he's not used to such heat and the rocky cliffs are terrible for his legs. I mean, I love riding with you guys, I love it," he quickly amended, though David had not stirred any cause for an excuse.

"But...all these plants springing up from the rain today, all these flowers--" he gingerly plucked the Autumn Sage from his pocket and handed it to David, who pinched the stem between his forefinger and thumb; a legendary, deadly outlaw gently holding something so delicate and transient, its beauty as fleeting as the winds of change. "They just made me think of California...of home." He closed his eyes, imagining the lush, green meadows of his family's ranch, the fertile lands he knew like second nature since his childhood. It was the first time in months he had thought of the humble Peek ranch, willed to his brother while Kyle indulged his wanderlust, and considered it his home.

It was a marked change from the young man who had argued and convinced David to let him join the outlaw gang. He had stressed so strongly that he hadn't wanted the quiet life of a rancher like his family, but now after tasting adventure, after handling more than any of them could stand of the dangers of outlaw life, the simple peace of a ranch might have been much more desirable. He couldn't help but smile at the placid expression on the kid's face; he knew a thing or two about men yearing for the very thing they left behind.

That was when David knew, from the look on his face and a wistful sigh on his lips, that Kyle Peek was not long for the world of an outlaw. That he was destined to return to his family, or start one of his own, and find himself again in the land his heart still called his home.

"We're headed West, you know," David said, leaning back on his elbows and stretching his legs in front of him. He would never force Kyle to leave them, not after the kid had worked so hard and fought so adamantly to become one of them...but he had no objections to giving him a little push. "We can always swing by that area, check in if you like..." He gave a sly wink in Kyle's direction but in his distracted state Kyle did not notice. David remembered a time when the kid, still such a greenhorn and so full of potential, would hang on his every word when he spoke; now that potential had been realized, and Kyle was hardly even paying attention. "Just a quick visit, of course."

"Of course," Kyle agreed absently, his gaze drifting towards the fire and his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Chuckling to himself, David shook his head, knowing that Kyle had not listened to a word, and knowing _why_ as well. There had been a time for Kyle to leave the safety of his family ranch, to become an outlaw and see the West for all of its rough faults and its unbridled glory; but there was a time equally as important for him to store his pistols away with his memories, resigning from his life as an outlaw, but never forgetting it.

In a sense, David mused as he kicked at an errant ember from the fire, the kid's path wasn't so different from his own, after all.

With his gaze shuffling lazily across the camp, he spied Neal setting down a steaming tin mug, filled with fresh soup, next to Andy, who had sat a ways from the fire and nested there since their arrival, moving only when it was required of him. Silent for most of the day's journey, Andy had seemed withdrawn, his jaw clenched and his mouth a tight, thin line, as if the residual pain from the bullet wound would leak out from between his lips, rendering him vulnerable. If David or Kyle had looked in his direction during their ride he gave them a proud, tight-lipped smile, reassuring them he was able-bodied and fine; he gave Neal no such assurances, knowing that whatever smile he pinned onto his face to hide the pain, Neal would see right through.

The guarded smile was gone now as well, Andy too drained to keep up appearances, as Neal sat in front of him, their profiles cast in the dim orange glow of the flame. Andy shook his head, his mouth open and ready to give a note of gratitude with his refusal of the tin cup, but Neal persisted, taking it back up in his tattooed hands; it was almost impossible for Andy to deny the offering now. "It's soup," he said, his lower lip drawn, the wan look on Andy's face distressing him. "You like soup."

Andy's face broke out into a genuine smile now, one that reached the crinkling corners of his eyes as he looked down at the cup, the hands extending it to him, both warm and inviting in their own ways. His body was weak, he accepted that as evidenced fact, and the pain he was trying to mask was sapping all of his energy, leaving him lethargic. Andy stubbornly refused to be coddled by Neal, as if he could not even retrieve his own damn soup if he wanted. But the gesture was not one of pity; Andy knew Neal well enough to understand he only wanted Andy well again, that his only desire was to see him smile like he meant it. 

"Thanks," he said softly, gingerly taking the cup from Neal, their hands brushing against one another in the exchange, skin upon skin. There was no hesitation from the contact, no pulling back; had the soup not been hot enough to sting Andy would have dropped the damned cup to the ground and taken both of Neal's hands in his, the comfort of that touch far more welcome than the soup. The moment passed but the sensations did not, Neal's skin alive with the feeling of Andy's hand overtop his own. Andy brought the cup to his lips and blew the steam away, reminding himself to compliment Kyle on a delicious smelling broth once the kid stopped staring dreamily at flowers scattered about the desert.

His eyes remained locked with Neal's the entire time, peering over the rim of the cup through the steam, a warm, dark brown still shining with the vitality his body now lacked meeting with a startlingly clear blue. So much had changed between them, and yet so little: Neal's gaze was as familiar as it had ever been, their ability to communicate with each other only through their eyes as strong as always. But beyond that was a deeper meaning behind their stare, the undercurrents of realization, of love, and a simple look was no longer just a look but an admiration, some kind of reverence. Andy looked into Neal's eyes and saw what he had been missing; Neal looked into Andy's and saw what he could have lost.

The quick shift of Neal's gaze broke their stare, a flicker of movement of the pupils that no one would have noticed had they not looked as intently as Andy, known so thoroughly Neal's subtle mannerisms, his nature. Andy was holding the mug of soup with both hands but its weight was firmly carried by his left, the right palm spread across the base of the cup for warmth but far from shouldering any burden. Neal's gaze touched upon Andy's right hand, lingering upon the wrist and forearm before coming to rest on Andy's shoulder, the obvious source of his weakness and the home of what had to be the sheriff's bullet wound.

Neal looked up again, and when their eyes locked it was in silent request, imploring Andy to knock down his defenses, to show him the full extent of his wounds. He knew Andy was hurting and trying to mask it with a stoic silence; he could never hide this from Neal, would never want to. Exposing the bullet wound was an inevitability, and once Neal asked, his eyes silently pleading for it, to be allowed to acknowledge Andy's pain and share it...Andy could never refuse.

After setting the mug of soup on the ground, Andy set to work on the topmost buttons of his shirt, ruined from the bullet hole and his own blood, the first thing he would have to replace once he was strong enough to sneak into a town. He aimed to pull the shirt down from his shoulders just enough to reveal the wound at the top of his back but Neal beat him to it, gently taking hold of the shirt's collar at the nape of Andy's neck and sliding the fabric down slowly, as if he were undressing a lover. Neal's thoughts were muddled for a moment as he focused on Andy's skin underneath his fingertips, his heat more familiar to Neal than breathing, the air lost in his throat on its way to the lungs merely proving his point. But then the shirt came down low enough to reveal the wound, and Neal lost his breath for an entirely different reason.

"I'm guessing it's not too pretty looking, is it." Andy hadn't the opportunity to see the bullet hole for himself but he suspected it wasn't a pleasant sight if the pain he still felt from it was any indication. Trying to keep the mood light he laughed weakly, sensing the shock radiating from Neal, his silence more telling than any description of the wound could ever be. "But it's got to look a hell of a lot better than it did, believe me."

If this was how the wound fared after allowing it to heal, Neal didn't want to even imagine when the shot was new, the blood fresh and running down Andy's back instead of the dried remnants of the rivulets soaked into his ruined shirt. But what shocked him the most, was its location: high on his back close to the shoulderblade, miraculously avoiding doing more damage than a loss of blood and a hideous scar. His thoughts were beyond the fact that Andy had been shot in the back--a coward's aim, the lowest of the low, and if Neal had the chance again he would have done the same justice to Gokey as he fled Hope. The shot's position was so precarious, just an inch lower on Andy's slender frame or half an inch to the left...

Neal clenched his jaw, his body suddenly overcome with emotion, and he fought to contain it, to remain strong. An inch lower or half an inch to the left, and the Kings would have been negotiating for a corpse and not their missing shadow.

Without noticing his hand had inched towards the wound, his face moving closer to better examine the damage in the poor light, fingers tracing in the air its jagged, red outlines, wishing to soothe the injured skin, expanses of flesh Neal knew intimately. Unwittingly Neal's hand made contact, the searing heat of damaged, healing flesh striking his senses. But the shudder that coursed through his body at first instinct, refusing to accept the fate that could have befallen the man he loved, was dwarfed by Andy's own instinctive reaction, gasping sharply and flinching, his mouth contorted into a grimace, his eyes squeezed tightly against the pain.

In that one fleeting moment Neal saw all of Andy's pain, unguarded and raw, a flash of what he had been holding in all day, away from the others. Neal admonished himself for unintentionally coaxing that suffering to the surface; a sharp pang of guilt in his chest told him he never wanted to be the catalyst for Andy's pain again, couldn't bear the thought of it. But when he looked up from the wound, his gaze meeting Andy's, the moment of reaction had passed and all that remained was open eyes, skin upon skin, a precious openness neither man had dared to trace to its root until now. It was in Andy's expressive eyes, where Neal had looked for years but he never _saw_ ; it was on Neal's pierced lips that Andy had kissed but never heard the words spoken before.

With the tiniest of nods, Andy welcomed Neal's touch, knowing the pain that would flare up again from his wound but accepting it regardless. It didn't matter what pain he endured, what challenges or danger lay ahead on their journey, so long as they rode that trail together.

Overwhelmed with emotion, Neal reached out again but not aiming for the wound that caused them both such grief. His eyes locked onto Andy's face as Neal's fingers brushed against the nape of his neck, trailing upwards along flesh hidden by long, dark brown hair, the contact intimate and meaningful in ways they had never experienced before. Like the outlaws themselves their hands had traveled without purpose, enjoying the freedom and pleasure of physical release but refusing to examine further, seek the source of their passion. Now they understood, silent on their lips but shouting from their senses, down to their very heartbeats, that this was love; it had always been love. And they would never ride without purpose again.

Neal leaned in to capture Andy's lips with his own, desperate for that contact, to confirm in the best way he knew how this entire ordeal had been real, that they were safe and they were together again. Disregarding the others at camp, Neal paid no attention to what David or Kyle might think should they catch their fellow outlaws in a kiss; the only thing on his mind was this, the soft press of Andy's lips to his, chapped and weather-beaten but perfect to him. This was what he wanted, he finally realized, his hand grazing against skin to rest against Andy's jawline; to have a reason to _feel_ , to love and be loved, relief flooding over him as their mouths fit together like they had never been distanced.

His last defenses were demolished when Andy felt Neal's lips upon his, a soft sound escaping from him as he broke, his emotions laid bare. Their kiss was not for physical pleasure, mouths remaining closed against one another, neither man wanting nor needing to deepen the kiss to make it any more meaningful than it already was. Andy hadn't realized how much he had yearned for Neal's kiss until that moment, pressing his lips against Neal's more forcefully, his brow creased in this strained, euphoric epiphany, not desiring more contact but more of _Neal_ , wishing to make up for their foolish years with one kiss.

They were breathless in seconds, powerful, notorious outlaws surrendering themselves whole to their emotions, their presence and touch and that brief moment of gentle, silent joy the only things that mattered. Neal broke the kiss panting, a soft groan escaping his lips as he felt Andy lean back in again as he pulled away, a dance to music found only in their hearts. Bridging that extra inch of space they would never let come between them again, their foreheads touched, heads bowed together in intimate conspiracy, Andy's hand coming up to the nape of Neal's neck, Neal's thumb brushing delicately against Andy's jaw.

The camp's fire became no consequence; the mug of soup, ignored. All that existed in their world at that moment was them, the meter of their breaths and the sensation of each other's warmth underneath their fingertips. And even across the camp, through the orange blaze of the fire, David witnessed this change in them, their intimacy no longer the worst-kept secret of the Kings. He had been aware for years of the love they shared, on both the physical level the pair had acknowledged to each other and the emotional level they had not, until this moment, realized lay at its foundation. A warm smile played upon his lips; to watch his two best friends--well-intentioned but admittedly dense--finally embrace their feelings for each other was a joy to him, and at the same time fueled a realization of his own.

Their devotion was steadfast and strong, and they would always hold loyalty to David Cook as friends, but their will to die for him was now gone; transferred, placed solely on each other. There would be no more daring, adventurous bank heists; gone were the days of risking their lives for a thrill and a gamble, reveling in the heat in their blood, money in their pockets and bounty hunters at their heels.

They had rode together as an outlaw gang, robbed banks with skill and determination as a team; but that night, David knew the Kings were no more.

***

It was just like every other town dotting the timeless landscape, a stretch of tired earth so used to empty desert and field now sprouting buildings of timber and iron, brass and steel. Nothing had changed save for the height of the prairie grass, not even a new coat of paint on the blacksmith's stables or a bright new sign attempting to lure customers into the saloon. The bank was as ill-equipped as ever, though the years were kind enough not to send a strong enough wind to knock it down entirely.

The only thing that felt changed in the town, he thought as he dismounted his horse, was him.

The sharp contrast of the Breakaway Saloon's shabby facade to its sophisticated, elegant interior never failed to surprise him, the beauty housed within those ramshackle walls like a mirage; too good to be true. The Spanish oak tables remained stately at their posts, awaiting their nightly patrons for flowing liquor and fast cards; the polished wooden bar still gleamed in the late afternoon sun streaming in from the front door. The Breakaway allowed a narrow yet vibrant path of light into the saloon along with him, its orange red hues tracing a line like wildfire down the wooden floorboards, muting the flickering warmth of candlelight and making a path straight to the soles of her boots.

Her hair cascaded down upon her shoulders like fine gold woven into linen, framing her face in dark-brown tendrils, marking a masterpiece. A glass of whiskey was raised halfway to her lips before she caught sight of him in the doorway, her hazel eyes attentive, steady, as she slowly lowered it again, the even expression on her face masking the racing of her heart. She still wore pants hugging tightly to the curves of her body, his fingers remembering every inch of her but begging for their memories to be refreshed.

With a warm, knowing half-smile playing on his lips, mouth desperate to break out into a relieved grin, his politeness superceded his joy and he tipped his hat in the beautiful woman's direction. When he looked up again through the hat's wide brim, his eyes wet with tears of happiness, his heart beat to the rhythm of beautiful music as she returned his gaze with a nod of her head and a genuine smile of her own.


	25. Chapter 25

_"No, sir, I am through with crime." - Black Bart, during his trial for robbery, on whether he would continue to write poetry after his trial_

 

"The Apache Kid runnin' all over the West. That Butch Cassidy fellow who hit Telluride last month. Hell, there've been reports of Texas Jack robbin' people blind all over this area." The bartender leaned over the thick, wooden counter, making sure the journalist could hear him over the din of the crowd. "If you're so keen on outlaws, why don't you follow one of those stories...instead of chasing after ghosts."

Most men would have considered the bartender's steely tone a threat. Most men like him, from east of the Mississippi, raised on peaches and cream and ventured out to the Indian Territory in a three-piece tweed suit, would have run for the hills from even the slightest hint of danger. But _this_ man, with more pride in the tips of his hair than most reporters had in their whole bodies, would not flee just from the first signs of resistance. Ryan Seacrest didn't scare easily.

"The Kings aren't ghosts, Mr. Gibson," he declared; the bartender's gut reaction prevailed, and he waved off the Southern pleasantries and insisted the reporter call him Nick. "Ghosts only appear when someone's dead, and I'm here to prove they're far from it." From a pocket inside his suit jacket Seacrest procured a lead pencil and a writing pad, tools he wielded for years to bring the country its truth--news stories reliable and sensational alike. He had delivered on this promise for years, but the legend of the Kings was Seacrest's white whale, his cross-country snipe hunt, and he was determined to find the true story if he had to search every inch of the West to do it.

The paper and pencil in Seacrest's hands were a rarity in this part of the territory, and more dangerous than any revolver that saw the inside of Nick's saloon. "I haven't seen one hair from their heads in years," he protested, his eyes shifting to the rowdy drinkers in the bar, seeking to end this conversation and go back to his job.

But Nick's vague answers only emboldened Seacrest, forcing him to probe deeper. "No one has. For years they ruled the West and then almost overnight--nothing." He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers in exasperation; it had been a long, long time since Seacrest had penned the sensational articles on the Kings's extended crime sprees, stories that had put him on the map, won him accolades and fame. Now, still riding on his own coattails a decade later, he had to discover why the source of his inspiration had mysteriously dried up. "It's been ten years and nothing: no more heists but no death notices, either. And trust me, I've been looking."

"And what, you expect to be the lucky one to find them?" Two more patrons entered the saloon, one aiming for the bar while the other made a beeline towards an empty table in the back of the parlor. Two more thirsty mouths to fill, and Nick was getting impatient along with the rest of his clientele. He tapped his fingers rapidly against the wooden bar, hoping the reporter would get the point.

Instead Seacrest pointed straight down at the counter, his finger making contact with the thick, old wood, a straightforward gaze never leaving Nick's face. "I've been everywhere looking for any sign of them, from Missouri to California and back. Even went to the last bank they robbed in New Mexico." He remembered the hot hellhole known as Hope vividly, the heat a terror on his complexion and the hospitality just as unforgiving. The sheriff there had no information for Seacrest, wouldn't even give a straight answer on whether or not the Kings had robbed their bank in the first place ten years ago. Nothing but dead ends and stone-faced replies everywhere he went, and he was sick of being turned away.

"Maybe they rode all the way to California and fell in the ocean," Nick muttered under his breath as he nodded over to a patron seating himself at the bar.

Seacrest leaned in, his voice conspirational. "I know the Flytrap Saloon was one of their roosts early in their career. Stayed here more often than I stay at my own home." He jabbed his finger down on the countertop again; this saloon, this very bar, was deeply connected to the Kings's past. On the border of the Indian Territory and Texas, it was the perfect, discrete area for fledgling outlaws to find safety and friendship. Seacrest smirked; but it wasn't discrete enough. "You knew the Kings like they were kin, Mr. Gibson. Don't tell me they've never stopped by to wish the old man well."

"Why do you care so much?" he asked again. There were dozens of outlaw stories to follow in the West, and yet Seacrest chased down rumors and decade-old leads with the hope of stumbling upon gold.

But it was more than just a story to Ryan Seacrest by now: it was an obsession, a driving need to figure out the mystery, one last ride for the once notorious Kings before time and the fickle interests of the masses erased them from memory forever. "They had it all," he said. "A heist every month, bounty hunters at their heels; never caught, never killed. The whole West feared them but they loved them, too; couldn't get enough of them in the papers. And then, poof--" he snapped his fingers loudly, and more than a few heads turned in his direction; most returned to their own business after determining Seacrest's tale was most probably of no interest, but the newcomer to the bar looked on, intrigued. "--Gone. Not a trace. Just...stopped. I want to know why they stopped; why they gave it all up when they had everything going for them. The Kings didn't die," he concluded. "They let themselves vanish."

"Maybe you're just looking in all the wrong places."

Both reporter and bartender turned to the newcomer at the bar, a slim man dressed all in black, waiting patiently for his order of drinks to be taken and filled. He had a habit of eavesdropping but no one ever seemed to mind, his easygoing smile and sound advice often softening any offense. Leaning on the bar with crossed arms, he surveyed Seacrest, an obvious outsider, assessing their conversation, but before he could say more the journalist had a few questions of his own. "Pardon?" he asked, in his most respectable tone--which, in any lands east of Atlanta, translated into something terribly haughty.

The other man shrugged. "You said you looked all over the West for the Kings and found squat. Maybe you're just looking in the wrong part of the country."

Seacrest was dumbfounded; he had been toiling for years trying to find any evidence, whispers laid upon the wind, that the Kings still lived in the ever-narrowing wilds of the West. It had never occurred to him they might not be there at all. "You mean..." he said, suddenly quite interested in the conversation. "...you don't mean the East, do you?"

Nick chimed in, fingers once again tapping against the wooden counter rapidly like a telegraph operator. "Bet it's pretty easy to get yourself lost in one of those big cities out East. New York, Boston..."

"Atlanta," the stranger suggested, raising an eyebrow.

Seacrest was taken aback by the thought that the outlaws he had been charting around the desert for a decade could have very well settled in his own city, living right under his nose while he was, as the bartender had called it, chasing after ghosts. The talkative stranger put the last suggestion in Seacrest's mind, the last nail in the coffin, as he cheerfully accepted a glass of ale from Nick. "Seems to me, if I had a heap of people looking for me out West, well...I wouldn't stick around so I could be found."

Hesitating for only a moment, Seacrest weighed his options, realizing the note of common sense in those words. He had been convinced he couldn't find a trace of the Kings not because they were dead, but because they were in hiding; and there was no better place for a wanted outlaw of the West to hide than the busy metropolises of the East. Almost snapping out of a trance, the journalist scribbled something down on his notepad, then ripped the page out and handed it to Nick. "You hear anything about the Kings, Mr. Gibson, _anything,_ " he instructed, also fishing out a few coins from his fancy East Coast suit for the trouble, "You send a letter to this address, on the fastest stagecoach out of here. Don't worry about postage, I'll pay for it." If he heard news that they were spotted back in the Indian Territory, Seacrest would come racing back, but now he had an entirely different land to investigate, more intricate and complicated than searching through the tumbleweeds for his vanished outlaws.

He leaned in closer, a low tone indicating he wished to keep this meeting secret, should he ever stumble upon the presence of the Kings again. "There'll be no law involved, let them know that," he said, barely loud enough for the newcomer to overhear. "I just want to talk. I want to know their story."

With a quick nod of gratitude to Nick and the stranger, Seacrest exited the Flytrap Saloon hot on the heels of a new lead, his mind swimming with the possibilities and the acclaim he would receive once he tracked down the infamous Kings. Nick watched his retreating frame and made sure the saloon door didn't hit him on the way out; the man clad in black, a weak smile on his face, paid more attention to the drink in his hand, enjoying its refreshing coolness on a hot Midwestern day. When he felt the presence of someone beside him, filling the void Seacrest had left, he finally looked up to see his companion had joined them, a scowl on his face for being summoned to the bar by Nick's fast-tapping fingers. That code was meant to be used only in emergencies.

"This had better be good," Neal voiced his thoughts with a growl, the hands covered by thick, leather gloves clenching into irritated fists, hoping his presence was muted enough not to cause suspicion. He looked over to his right, Andy as calm as ever, a thrilling spark in his eyes from getting the chance once more to blend in with the crowd, misdirecting others' hunches away from the true location of the Kings. Neal sure _hoped_ Andy enjoyed it; even a decade after the fact the sharpshooter was wary of falling into old routine, of letting something slip.

"Do me a favor there, Nick," Andy called to him, his tone an even deadpan but his eyes flashing with urgency. "I'd be much obliged if you burned that address."

Neal's lip curled into a snarl, his senses suddenly on alert. That man in the tweed suit had not just been asking for directions. "Bounty hunter?" he asked, a hand halfway towards the revolver at his side.

But Nick shook his head as he handed Neal a glass, his order of whiskey automatic, his desires met. "Worse. Reporter."

"Oh, he was harmless," Andy said, though he would not consider the journalist harmless enough to keep that scrap of paper intact. He turned to Neal, his smile widening. "Seacrest," he detailed, remembering the man's articles throughout the years, so crucial to David's connection with his woman--found, then lost, then found again. The journalist had attributed other crimes and robberies to the Kings that they had never committed; Andy didn't see why he wouldn't continue the tradition. "I sent him back east, make him look for the Kings out there for a spell. Doesn't matter anyway; he'll just make up what he doesn't find."

"He's not gonna find anything," Neal was assured of this, finally sighing out the breath he had been holding and filling the void it left with a long draught of whiskey.

The only one to seem less than completely comfortable with the situation was Nick, who watched his friends take the journalist with a grain of salt when they should have been minding him with a Gatling gun. "He had found something, alright," he said grimly; the serious expression on his face made Andy and Neal take notice, setting down their drinks and allowing Nick to speak. "He might be a fool but he's done his homework."

They had been too easygoing about Seacrest's appearance; they had been through too much together not to err on the side of caution. It had been obvious the journalist had discovered nothing about Neal or Andy's whereabouts. But if he had found something... Their voices dropped into low tones, remembering clandestine conversations as if they were back in the outlaw life again, back to robbing banks and living far too close to the edge. "Kyle?" Andy asked, a nervous lump forming in his throat just at the thought of some reporter uprooting the kid's life, though he was far from being a kid anymore.

"Dave," Neal gave his own suggestion, his face darkening, the most noted member of their old gang the obvious target for reporters searching for a story...or worse.

But Nick shook his head at both men, their assumptions incorrect. Seacrest might have been a crack investigative journalist, but he wasn't _that_ good. "Joey," he clarified. "Seacrest said he tracked down his trail, heard some rumors about him. Seems he's been riding with the Gomez Gang, they've been doing some damage down in Mexico."

To hear that Joey Clement had finally found his way down to Mexico was no surprise to either man. Andy remembered his strong desire to head south of the Rio Grande and plunder the Mexican gold to be found there, while Neal recalled Joey's uneasy, fearful last night with the Kings and his hasty departure, fleeing the danger of a posse without so much as a goodbye. Their old friend would always make it by, they supposed, Joey keen on traveling with the flow of fate, making allies with a shotgun and following the dustclouds wherever a heist was sure to come. It was how he had joined the Kings, and how he had left them; Neal and Andy had no doubt it was how he had come to ride with the Gomez Gang as well.

"Wow," Andy said as Neal let out a low whistle at the news. "Always thought he would be dead by now."

"The resilient bastard," Neal commented, unsure about which part of his phrase described Joey better. He lifted his glass to the air in a toast; if they could not commemorate Joey's presence, they could at least celebrate his stubbornness to die. "To Joey," he announced, the understated gesture strangely fitting for the former King.

"To Joey," both Andy and Nick repeated, and Andy touched his glass to Neal's, the tinkling crystal drowned out by the rowdier patrons of the saloon. They downed their drinks voraciously, another testament to their earlier years: Neal finished his whiskey in one throat-burning swallow that warned him he was getting too old for this shit, while Andy's ale went down more smoothly though his larger drink caused him to finish last.

Nick retrieved the empty glasses, quick to refill them for old friends, but stopped before he made his way to the shelves of liquor behind him, an intrigued look on his face. "You know, that reporter fellow was irritating, but he asked a mighty good question," he noted. He looked intently at Andy, then Neal, his gaze shifting between them, scrutinizing them. Nick had known them for years now, remembered when Neal could barely grow hair on his face and now he sported a thick mustache drooping down the sides of his mouth; recalled Andy's first decision to grow his hair long over his eyes and now that dark head of hair had a few graying strands threaded in from age. But during their years of acquaintance Nick never asked questions, knowing far too well that an outlaw had his secrets and his friends, if he had friends, let that outlaw keep them.

Now, a decade after Neal and Andy had hung up their spurs and left the banks of the West to their own fates, the question tugged at Nick's resolve, Seacrest's presence only making not knowing the answer unbearable. "Why?" he asked simply. "You gave it all up and I never understood it. You were the Kings, man." His voice was hushed for their discretion but even in his low tone Andy and Neal could hear his earnestness, the voice of a man who knew outlaws, thought he could understand the life of one...but never experienced it himself. And because of that, Nick would never fully understand their reasons. "You owned this land; you made every banker from here to Temecula your bitch. No one could touch you."

The expressions on Neal and Andy's faces were stony, serious; they expected to overhear these kinds of questions from ambitious reporters, the starry-eyed and slack-jawed, but not from a trusted friend. The Kings's reasons for disbanding--each outlaw had them, unspoken and nestled deep within their hearts--were rarely rehashed between them, the circumstances surrounding their end full of memories neither man cared to relive. Nick considered them unstoppable, as did many men across the West who still told the stories of the Kings in whispers for fear they might reappear; but the Kings themselves knew they were far from it.

"Someone almost did," Neal said in a grave voice, his tone a swift warning to Nick that this conversation was over. Beyond the sight of the bartender, ignored by the crowds of drinkers in the Flytrap, Neal raised his hand to rest on the small of Andy's back, a subtle reminder to them both of the moment the unstoppable Kings almost lost it all.

His hand retreated once Nick left the pair, off in search of more liquor for his friends and other thirsts to whet, but the feeling still lingered, Neal's fingertips hot with the sensation of Andy's body warmth underneath them, Andy's eyes drifting closed in silent pleasure, savoring that tiny bit of contact. "You know," he said softly, and even with his eyes closed he could tell all of Neal's attention was on his voice. "Seacrest said he's been searching all over for us."

"Is that so." Neal raised an eyebrow at his partner, the only man in that saloon, and possibly in all the territories, that knew the nuances of Andy's voice well enough to decipher it. He wasn't simply making small talk until their drinks arrived; between Andy Skib and Neal Tiemann, their talk was never small.

"Yep. Made it all the way to California." The state's name rolled off Andy's tongue, a plump, luxurious name for a land equally as rich. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, both men remembering their travels in California well, and it wasn't for the beautiful scenery.

A smirk of Neal's own soon developed, his partner's intentions suddenly becoming clear to him. "The other guys should definitely know about this," he said. "Just as, you know, a _warning_. That's all."

Their moods brightened with talk of lands they traversed as wanderers and conquered as Kings, and the friends who found their homes there when Neal and Andy had complacently found a place to call home within each other. It had been a decade since the Kings came to an end, and years since they had last seen their fellow outlaws; perhaps it was time to change that. "Heard California's nice this time of year," Andy said, the hint of a smile breaking out into a full grin, his eyes alight with excitement.

"California's nice _any_ time of year," Neal reminded him, at the same time cautioning himself not to capture those grinning lips with his own; they enjoyed some discretion at the Flytrap Saloon, but even old Nick would raise an eyebrow at that. He compromised by giving Andy a sly wink, promising many moments on a journey westward where desert dunes, prairie dogs, and the wind didn't give a damn about a kiss. "According to the kid, that is."

***

Kyle Peek stood before his homestead with his feet squarely on solid ground, the twin pistols at his sides used for nothing more than target practice for years but still crucial to him in a pinch, still ready for just about anything.

He received the distressing news without much warning, only enough time to direct his family back into the house and reach for the firearms. He hadn't even the time to saddle up old Gangles and meet whatever trouble was riding onto his ranch; he could only stand there and wait for the riders to pop up over the horizon. Kyle would have to handle this confrontation alone.

"How many did you say you saw again?" He looked over to his left, his hand ready to draw one of his pistols softening along with his stare. He had ordered his entire family back into the house until he could determine they were safe, but one remained, refusing to let Kyle face this alone. Kyle couldn't be cross with him, he hadn't the heart; after all, he was just as stubborn and loyal when he was Hayden's age.

"Only two, Pa," he answered, straightening his back to stand at his full height, proud to have seen the intruders first while heading back from feeding the chickens. He looked older than his nine years at that moment, Kyle thought, trying all at once to be a boy and a man; he was a hell of a lot braver than Kyle had ever been, but, as he recalled from his first encounter with the Kings, youth commonly mistook ignorance for courage. "But I've never seen them around; I would've remembered their horses if I ever saw them before."

With a nod and an encouraging hand placed upon the boy's shoulder, Kyle urged him to continue. The chestnut horse Hayden began to describe was common enough, though there were few horses in the region the Peeks could not identify, if they hadn't raised and sold them themselves. But when he spoke of the other horse--massive yet fast, white adorned with black speckled spots along its coat--Kyle's eyes widened, realization dawning on him. These were no horse rustlers or chicken poachers; they were troublemakers, yes, but Kyle wouldn't have had it any other way.

Dropping his guard, the hand resting at Hayden's shoulder coming up to tousle his hair, Kyle stepped forward, no longer fearing for the safety of his family or his ranch. An excited smile worked its way into the corners of his mouth, his ears suddenly unresponsive to the boy's perplexed calls as he took one step after another, faster now, until he was nearly running over the fields towards the two riders, his smile wideningwith every step. He was twenty-one again, enthusiastic and naive, searching for adventure and finding more than he had ever bargained for. He could not relive those days--he didn't ever want to, not after discovering the place in life where he belonged the moment his children were born--but he could revisit them, recalling the thrill and danger, the travels of his youth he could never forget.

The two riders had closed the distant gap between them and the Peek homestead, advancing at a brisk yet leisurely trot, their lack of urgency only enlivening Kyle more; this would indeed be a social call, not a call to arms. With heavy breaths in his chest that reminded Kyle his body was not what it was when he was twenty-one, either, he slowed his run when the pair were close enough to hear a strong shout. Though he could not come up with something to fully express his delight--David was always the wordsmith, while Kyle merely stumbled upon the right words--he ended up merely hollering at the pair, arms waving in the air, flagging them down, grin visible for miles. They would probably crack wise that they expected Kyle to flap his arms hard enough to fly over to them, but he didn't care one lick; it had been too long since he had heard them joke much about anything.

"Hope you're not expecting to use those pistols on us, kid," Neal joked as they rode up to their old partner, expertly slowing Sixx's pace within inches of Kyle's frame. The old beast gave Kyle an affectionate nudge of his muzzle, expressing for both horse and rider the joy to see him again. Kyle looked down at his sides, the twin holsters hugging his hips rather worn for their wear--a side effect, he supposed, of hanging those pistols up for good. No one called him "kid" anymore, the moniker adopted by outlaws with far more robberies and murders to the name, and these days he was more father than child, but he beamed at the nickname from the mouths of the only men still using it.

"Yeah," chimed in Andy, an indulgent grin on his face; he moved to tip his hat in salutation but thought better of it, the gesture far too informal for their kind. "Don't forget who taught you how to actually _use_ them."

***

They were always welcome on the Peek ranch, though the home Kyle had constructed for himself and his bride a decade ago had become cozy and small for his growing family, much less two grown travelers accustomed to wide, open spaces. Kyle made sure to play the role as the generous host every time Andy and Neal's paths led them to his door, close to bursting with excitement and providing everything in his power to give. They had been away longer than they expected this time, the years rolling by like fluffy clouds in an endlessly blue California sky; it had seemed that every time they arrived on Kyle's doorstep there was another Peek to welcome into the world, as bright-eyed and sunny as their father. Hayden had barely begun to walk during their last visit, it seemed, and now he could not only run but ride, mastering the ranch horses with an expert hand and a deep connection with the animals that bore the mark of Kyle's compassionate heart.

Once the Kings had disbanded Kyle had wasted no time in finding where he belonged: yearning for the idyllic landscapes of his youth he returned to the ranch, using his share of the Kings's spoils to buy the surrounding plots of land and stake his own claim in the region with a formidable horse trade. When he was young all he wanted was to escape the confines of that ranch, the land to his name that held him back from his dreams; but he achieved his dreams, traveled the West and experienced more in a year than most men would in a lifetime. The West had been conquered and he had ached for home, the nomadic life never suiting him; Andy and Neal had long ago decided they would only settle in one spot when they were ready to be buried in it.

"So, how's the old boy? He ready to go out to stud yet?" Kyle asked Neal as the three men lounged in the main room of the house, a small yet steady fire lighting their faces and drink filling their bellies. The two travelers had been the center of attention on the Peek ranch all day, entertaining Kyle's excited young brood as well as reminiscing with the equally excited patriarch himself. Their energy had set along with the sun, and as the three former Kings sat down to catch up on old times, nothing felt more alluring to them than a comfortable chair, a strong drink, and a good friend.

He had meant Sixx, of course, the Dr.'s trusted horse for decades, a gentle soul within a massive frame whom Kyle had known and cared for during his time with the Kings. He, along with Andy's Vera, had been given stalls of distinction inside Kyle's best stable; their owners humbly accepted less distinctive lodging for their stay in the hayloft of the barn. But Neal, with a mischevous smirk on his pierced lips, reached over towards Andy and patted him playfully on the knee. "He's been holding up fine," he joked, a wink in his direction causing Andy to nearly wake up the sleeping children with his laughter and Kyle to almost choke on his drink. "Though I might trade him in soon for something younger. And I don't think I'll be sending him out to stud; the fillies don't have much use for a gelding."

"I hate you," Andy muttered, though the spark in his eye and the toothy grin spread across his face indicated quite the opposite.

"The _horse_ , you fool," Kyle clarified after his laughter subsided, watching Neal toast himself before finishing off his drink. "And Vera, too. They're good horses, but I'd hate to hear you're wearing them out."

Andy waved a dismissive hand at Kyle; he had reared Vera since her birth, and while the old mare wasn't as fast or constant as she had once been, he would never consider pushing her past her limits just for his own ends. "They're happy as plums," he said. "They're not what they used to be, but who of us are anymore?"

"Why, you got a pair of stallions for us as a reunion gift?" Neal asked, lazily tipping his chair back and resting his boots on the table.

Immediately Kyle swatted at the sharpshooter's feet while giving him the sternest look he could muster. "Feet off the table," he ordered, and surprisingly, the authoritative tone in his voice triggered Neal to oblige, stunned that a decade of being a family man had matured someone they still considered the Kid. "This ain't the Fallen, though I doubt even Carly would let you do that in her saloon. And no, I've got no horses in mind," Kyle was in the business of raising and selling horses, not giving them away, though for old friends he would certainly make an exception. "But if you see any around the ranch you take a liking to, just let me know and--"

"Pa?" came a small, sleepy voice from the doorway. The three men turned towards the sound and spied Hayden willing away the drowsiness in his eyes, his curiosity over his father's friends winning out over slumber. "You're not just giving them horses, are you?"

Kyle gave his son a welcoming smile. "How long have you been up?" he asked, knowing from the way Hayden guiltily shrank away from the doorframe that it must have been quite a while. But Kyle wasn't angry or even irritated at the intrusion; he beckoned for Hayden to join them in the main room, the boy hesitating before taking the few steps in and approaching his father's side. If he was so fascinated with their guests, Kyle thought, then there was no better time to get them acquainted than now.

"You know I don't usually give others our horses," he explained. "But Andy and Neal are good friends of mine. We've...we've been through a lot." He looked both men in the eyes, the memories of their adventures coming back to them, passed but never forgotten. "So if they reckon they'd like a horse or two of mine, and let Sixx and Vera retire here, they're welcome to it. I owe it to them."

"More like _we_ owe _you_ ," Andy corrected him. "Can't even remember how often you saved our asses out there."

"And saved us from Joey's beans," Neal quipped.

"Aw, guys," Kyle rolled his eyes with a grin, a blush creeping over his face, thoroughly unaccustomed to receiving such praise in his own home.

The one who did not seem affected by the pair's compliments, however, was Hayden, whose love and loyalty towards his father was only outmatched by his skepticism. He stared at the two visitors, meek yet maintaining a brave front, his lower lip protruding in a stubborn, doubting pout. Kyle placed a hand on Hayden's head affectionarely, a sympathetic smile spreading over his face as he remembered the boy's protests, even as a small child, to the yarns his father spun about bank heists and outlaws. To Hayden, his pa was a rancher, good-natured and kind to both man and beast, though he expressed no particular love for their chickens; these, as he was led to believe, were not the qualities of an outlaw.

"Hayden...doesn't really believe my stories about the Kings," he admitted, as Andy and Neal's eyes grew wide with disbelief.

"Doesn't believe!" Neal scoffed, slapping his hand against his knee. Out of all the rumors and whispers about the Kings spread throughout the West, the thousands of families that knew to fear and respect those men and their power, _this_ was the one little boy who thought it was all bullshit. "Why...we're _here_ , aren't we?"

Andy, scratching his five o'clock shadow with a thumb and forefinger thoughtfully, had a different approach to the doubting Hayden. "Oh, your father was an outlaw alright," he assured the boy, as Kyle rose from his seat to put another log on the fire. "But I bet he's been telling you his stories all wrong, all this time. He always did rely on David to tell the stories in the gang." Though his back was turned Andy could tell Kyle had a grin on his face, just the sound of their former leader's name in the air bringing back memories of Kyle's short time with the Kings, barely a year but life-altering all the same, for all of them.

Leaning over the table towards Hayden, Andy gave the boy a sly look, unseen by Kyle. "I bet your pa's never even told you about a little town called Fox Canyon, did he. At least, never told you the _right_ story." Hayden shook his head, suddenly intrigued by these old friends, who seemed to know about the tall tales Hayden had always thought originated in his father's imagination. He took the seat vacated by Kyle, his eyes on the two travelers as they shared a mischevous glance between them, plotting.

When Kyle turned from the fire, he saw his son entranced by the tale, Andy and Neal reeling him in with the story of the stampede and his daring rescue on his first heist. They embellished some parts while leaving out others, keeping quiet on Kyle's insubordination that brought him closer to the fray in the first place, and described his mastery of the horses in vivid detail, leaving Hayden with quite a different view of his father's connection with the animals. Andy spared no detail, recalling what he could in the decade the story lay dormant in his mind, and Neal added to the account with details from his own memory, accenting each line with exaggerated hand gestures--a pointed forefinger representing a gun, a wild waving of his arms as the hapless bartender thwarted by Kyle.

By the time they wrapped up the tale it was ages after Hayden's bedtime but no soul in that room paid it any mind, Andy and Neal too enamored with recalling their glory days to notice the time, and Hayden went gleefully along for the ride. And Kyle had been too busy watching his son during the storytelling, how Hayden's eyes lit up at the tales of his father's heroics, intently listening in a way he never had when Kyle told his tales. The boy must have been exhausted but he didn't dare show it on his face, let a yawn escape his lips lest he be shooed off to bed with the other children; he wanted more than ever to be one of the men, staying up at all hours and swapping stories of their fame. It appeared that Hayden finally believed his father had been the notorious outlaw he had claimed; now it would be equally as difficult to explain to him why he had left the outlaw life to settle down and start a family.

"So, kid," Neal poked a lazy finger at Hayden's forehead, resting atop his arm at the table, minutes away from drifting off to sleep whether he liked it or not. Kyle couldn't help but smirk as his old nickname passed to the younger generation seamlessly. "Is your pa shaping up to be your idol now?"

Surprisingly to each man in the room, Hayden lifted his head from the table, heavy with exhaustion though his eyes were bright and alert, and shook his head no. Neal was about to protest, supporting his friend's good name to the boy who should have recognized his value more than anyone, but then Hayden explained himself, a soft voice already halfway into dreams. "He don't need to be an outlaw or gunfighter or any of that." The admiration in Hayden's voice was not something that developed overnight, over an embellished tale of quick draws and quicker horses; this was years of love and respect bubbling up to the surface in the sleepy, small hours of the night, simpler yet more important than any worship of a legend could ever be. "He's just gotta be my pa."

And with that Hayden drifted off to sleep, his eyelids too burdensome to keep open any longer. Neal and Andy's gazes drifted from the sleeping boy over to Kyle, watching with a faint, unreadable gleam in his eye, full of joyful tears he did not want to relinquish, and a warm, proud smile spreading across his face he didn't ever wish to hide.

***

Every morning since their arrival Neal and Andy had been awoken by Kyle's cheery, excited self, bursting open the barn door and arriving with fresh breakfast and the morning sun. Armed with an endless supply of anecdotes about his growing family and life on the ranch, Kyle escorted his old partners each day across the vast lands owned by the Peeks and beyond, lush, green meadows that stretched so close to the ocean the pair could taste the salt sea in the air. They examined the many horses Kyle cared for on the land, perfect for grazing and fit, ideal exercise, but ultimately decided not to part with Sixx and Vera, the two horses too dear to their hearts. Kyle had joked that for all their rough edges and foreboding personalities, his friends were sentimental fools at heart, a comment that prickled Neal, his lips snarling in mock outrage as he threatened to shoot the smirk off Kyle's face. Some things, he thought joyfully, never changed.

But on the sixth morning, Kyle opened the barn door to silence, the hay loft empty and clean, as if there weren't two men staying there for nearly a week; as if there had never been. The only items that confirmed to Kyle he hadn't hallucinated them were a small pouch filled with gold coins--payment for the trouble and resources the Peeks went through to make their stay hospitable, knowing that Kyle would have never accepted the money if they handed it to him--and carefully handmade toys and trinkets, diligently forged over the past week, one for each of Kyle's children. A buckwheat doll with a unique fashion sense only Neal could have designed was among them, along with a hand-carved wooden pistol for Hayden, shaped identically to the ones Kyle kept in his retired holsters.

Kyle knew he could not thank them, couldn't even hope to catch up on what would probably be hours' lead out of the state; he held each trinket in his hands instead, feeling the work and care put into each toy, a nostalgic smile on his face. Andy and Neal had never been good at goodbyes.

***

"Eat something, damn you; I made this food so you three would eat it."

"And it looks delicious, Kelly," Neal supplied, though the stationary fork and the corn bread cooling on his dinner plate insinuated otherwise.

"I'm eating," said David, his mouth full and grinning.

"You're sucking up is what you're doing," Andy muttered into his potatoes.

Kelly tried to hide her amusement behind a scowl; though in the years they had been together she could never get mad at David Cook, he wasn't helping matters any. "You'll eat anything I put in front of you," she countered, and the lewd smile she received from him confirmed just that. She hiked a thumb in their guests' direction; Neal was politely chewing on the beefsteak, at least, but the rest of his meal was left untouched. "Him, on the other hand..."

"Neal's on a strict meat-and-liquor regimen," Andy explained, planting a hand on Neal's shoulder. He let it linger there for a while, giving the muscle and bone underneath Neal's shirt a squeeze, knowing they were in trusted company. "Keeping his youthful figure, of course." Neal gave a smile and toasted his glass of ale as Kelly balked; that was certainly not the kind of diet regimen she had ever heard of, for health or for pleasure.

"You'll waste away eating like that," she warned, her eyes narrowing and her mouth curving into a smirk when Neal commented she should have been wagging a finger at him for even greater effect.

He nodded towards David, who sported a little less hair and a little more girth than the notorious outlaw of legend, but still held that spark in his smile, the grin that went all the way to the deepened wrinkles by his eyes; a mark that, after returning to Kelly, David had begun to smile a whole lot more. "And I can see Dave here is your number one example."

The table broke out into peals of laughter: Kelly tried to hide her amusement but soon her open grin became too loud and large to mask with her hand. David let out a well-earned belly laugh, playfully patting the extra weight in question, thoroughly enjoying his retirement. Andy had to grip the table from laughing so hard, their first night upon arrival at David and Kelly's secluded homestead a roaring reunion, one for the ages.

They had visited the Cook-Clarkson ranch--neither party had any inclination towards marriage, David insisted the ranch was as much Kelly's as it was his--far more often than venturing out towards Kyle's neck of the woods, the Montana territory more accommodating for their aging horses' legs. Andy and Neal typically returned at least once a year to the comforts of a generous homestead, Kelly's home cooking and the guest cabin David had constructed specifically for their visits especially inviting. This time, however, they had spent too many months on the open plains, the vast unknown of the West growing smaller every day from claim jumpers and boomtowns, and now Kelly was punishing them for their absence with an abundance of Texan hospitality.

Talk of Seacrest's never-ending quest for the truth behind the Kings's disappearance was certainly on the table, though David only wished to discuss what was absolutely necessary for each man's survival; he leaned back in his chair and announced that he was out of the gunslinging business, and was not looking to handle any interviews. David was far more interested with the news Andy and Neal brought about Kyle, his eyes brightening with the descriptions of the growing Peek brood, the ease with which Kyle seemed to slide back into civilian life. He promised he would make it out there once again, making sure the Kid did not stay a stranger; he didn't miss the danger of the outlaw life but he could never overlook the bonds he had made, with Kyle and with the two men sitting at his dinner table, quarreling with Kelly over dessert.

The overseer of the ranch joined them for blueberry tarts and coffee, a stout, bald man with a kind smile and an easily affable disposition, remembering Andy and Neal's faces from years ago when they all helped build David's ranch from the ground up. Friendly and loyal, Monty Anderson had been a ranchhand for the Cooks when David had been a young teen, and upon his return to a normal life the former outlaw couldn't think of anyone more worthy to lead his ranch's operations. Monty fit in seamlessly with the others, soon laughing like old friends, though the conversation decidedly steered away from talk of the Kings, and Andy's hand had retreated from the warmth of Neal's shoulder, his fingers itching to return.

"We were real lucky this year," David explained, giving Monty his due. Everyone at the dinner table knew David wasn't in the ranching business for the money but rather the tranquility of its lifestyle; with Monty managing the business and delegating the dirty work, David had time to do what he hadn't since he was nineteen; _relax_. "Had quite a bit of work to be done, ol' Monty here had to hire a few new workers for the ranch."

"It's just five boys from across the Green River," Monty demurred, claiming it was all in a day's work, but David still insisted on toasting to him, declaring it a night of success and celebration as well as one of reunion.

Coffee and biscuits turned once again into liquor and ale after Monty called it an early evening, reminding his cheerful boss some men still had predawn chores the next morning. Once he was out of earshot David informed his friends he hadn't seen the sun rise in years, taking full advantage of the luxuries of owning a ranch without being forced to work on it for a living. "Don't miss it at all," he said; there was much more about the outlaw life he did not miss other than the sunrises. Leaning back in his chair, he roped in Kelly with strong arms as she passed on her way to the kitchen, wrapping them around her waist and resting an alcohol-logged head on her hip. "I tell you, boys, there is no better feeling in the world than sleeping in."

With a disapproving cluck of her tongue and a jarring sway of her hips Kelly voiced her distaste for David's frankness; he turned his head to rest his chin against the folds of her skirt, his eyes reflecting a bright, playful green, silently challenging her. When their eyes met the mock argument dissolved, their moods quickly shifting, no longer looking to toy with one another but instead merely to look, gaze into the eyes of the person they loved. The ten years they had been together only intensified their affection, developing into something much deeper than the passionate lust they first shared; separation matured them, made David realize what he had to live for and gave Kelly a hope to be something more than a banker's daughter, a small-town girl meant for something more than the Breakaway Saloon. Now, David couldn't imagine traveling the West without her, and Kelly wouldn't waste another second waiting for what might come.

That look on his face--soft smile, a spark in his eyes meant only for her--told Andy and Neal that David had always been meant to live out his days on a peaceful land, away from the danger they had found as outlaws. With all of the tragedy and injustice in his life, David Cook had deserved to be happy--and now, staring up into Kelly's eyes, his lover as reluctant to depart from his touch as he was to let go, they realized he finally was.

Their two guests looked on with a silent admiration, appreciating what David and Kelly had found with one another, the life they made for themselves here. Underneath the table Andy felt something warm brush against his skin, a hand slipping into his own; when he looked over Neal's eyes were on him, an emotion in his eyes a decade ago Andy would have said was unreadable, but now he had finally deciphered the code neither man realized they were transmitting. Kelly and David weren't the only ones who found each other.

"I don't know, Dave," Neal responded, his gaze still locked onto Andy's, not knowing or caring if their friends witnessed their stare. He brushed his thumb against the palm of Andy's hand as they clasped them together, unseen by their hosts' eyes; Andy's mouth went dry before he smiled, too proud to ever admit he may have been blushing. "Maybe you've just never seen the sun rise like we have."

Neal found himself eating his words during their entire stay, however, the warm, soft mattress in their guest cabin too inviting to abandon, as well as the warm body of the man lying next to him in it. Brazen, bright sunlight streamed in through the window each morning, typically nature called for the pair to pack up their camp and move on, but in this setting its power was passive, a silent supporter, illuminating their contentment. Still batting the sleep from his eyes, Neal shifted towards Andy's body in the bed, waking him with gentle yet insistent kisses brushed against his shoulders and neck, carefully avoiding the scar above Andy's shoulderblade that never fully went away, a constant reminder to the both of them. He had to hand it to David, Neal mused, a smile on his face as Andy's eyes blinked open, awake, the sunlight enhancing the shades of green hidden underneath dark brown; sleeping in did have its advantages.

***

Kyle's observations on the horses' health came back to haunt them in Montana; finally the years of a nomadic lifestyle had its affect on Sixx and Vera, the animals aging far faster than their riders. Vera tired quicker than she ever had on the journey from California, and Sixx took pains upon rocky terrains he once could master. After a thorough evaluation from Monty the verdict was clear: the unfortunate pair could no longer endure their owners' wanderlust, and would have to be put out to pasture.

"They'll be fine here," David assured them, genuinely concerned for the horses' comfort as well as their owners: Andy's frown so deep it nearly dragged on the ground, Neal looking as if Monty asked him to part with one of his limbs instead of just his horse. "Lots of land, lots of good care--I'll see to it myself." He slung an arm over each of his friend's shoulders, trying to distract them from the separation; the impending end of an era. "And at least now, Sugarfoot'll have some good company."

Cracking a smile, Neal joked along with it, inquiring about Sixx's prospects should he send the beast out to stud. It broke the tension over the situation when both David and Andy balked, refusing to allow Vera nor Sugarfoot to have anything to do with that particular pedigree. Their protests devolved into laughs, calming into quiet awe as Monty presented Neal and Andy with two colts, hot-blooded and fast, bred and trained to be the able and dutiful horses the pair would require. They were cousins, the overseer explained, born in the same summer to sister mares, though their chestnut coloring and dark manes made them appear more like twins.

Gifts, David insisted, and would accept no money for them no matter how much they would protest, though neither Neal nor Andy did. Ever since the two horses were foals David had plans to present them to his friends instead of wasting their natural talents on his ranch; better for them to master the West as intended, he said, than to languish on one plot of land. In that sense, he argued, even though Andy and Neal had never met them before, Amos and Godspeed had always been theirs.

It was on the first ride with their new mounts, exploring the far reaches of David's ranch with the owner, where they posed the question; soft, barely spoken, it could have been forgotten had an errant breeze swallowed up the words and carried them away.

"Do you miss it?"

It was foolish to ask: Andy and Neal already knew the answer, could see it on David's face every time they came to visit, every time a light from within shone in David's eyes when he looked at Kelly. David belonged on this ranch, he belonged with her, living out the rest of his years in simple bliss. He had hated the running, constantly on the move, with never more than a wad of stolen bills and a horse to his name. He despised their infamy, now that its usefulness had been outlived, and relished the moments now when Monty and the boys from across the Green River knew him for his good nature and his humor, and not for his bad deeds or the reputation that had always preceded him. David found all that he had needed in the soft whispers of love Kelly gave to him every night, the arms that embraced him for which he had waited so long; his bank robbing days felt ages ago, like a different lifetime.

David closed his eyes in thought, a deep sigh escaping his lips; Neal believed he would blow up at them, rant in the remotest ridge of his ranch that he was glad to be rid of the Kings, while Andy thought the sigh was a calm before David broke out into uncontrollable laughter, the concept of missing the outlaw life unbearable to him. But what came from his mouth surprised them both, David's eyes a clear gray when he opened them again, his voice sincere. "I miss you," he finally said, looking each of his former partners in the eye.

They had been the notorious Kings, feared and respected throughout the West, leaving no boomtown or frontier bank safe; but David would have been nothing without them. Andy and Neal had become like family to him over the six years they rode together, entrusting their lives to one another, their destinies always on the same path. And though David had relinquished the outlaw life for a new kind of family, he regretted that he had to give up his closeness with the pair.

Exchanging a brief look, Neal and Andy gave the slightest of nods to one another, their mouths still and their eyes doing all of the talking. A snap of David's fingers broke their stare; he was shaking a finger at them, unwittingly the very example of what he had missed. "See? _That._ I miss _that._ " His face broke out into a smile when he received puzzled glances from the pair, and he threw his arms up in a resigned shrug. "I don't even know what you're thinking about right now, I've completely lost it!"

He let out a loud, barking laugh, and it was a credit to their trainers that Amos and Godspeed did not rear back in surprise from the sudden noise. Andy and Neal couldn't help but smile, memories of their connection with David, their uncanny method of non-communication, coming back to them like the dying embers of a fire blazing back to life. "Well, it _has_ been a while," Andy supplied the excuse but David didn't take it, shaking his head, knowing what the three of them had was lost not because he was out of practice, but for something else.

"I lost it," he clarified, the look on his face turning nostalgic. "But you never did." He spurred Sugarfoot around so he could get a full look at the two men on horseback, the friends he had spent years riding with, whose history with David spoke volumes more than any words ever could. They had all changed in the past decade, aged like a vintage wine, but the life he saw in their eyes still burned, still sought the vast, open West like untamed horses, riding free. What they had searched for in their lives wasn't hampered by timber and pine, so different from the life David had finally attained; their home was not of brick or wood but within each other. The moment David had discovered that--that one New Mexican night, ten years ago, marked by a reunion and a fulfilling, defiant kiss--was the moment he had known their paths would no longer converge.

"You both got along just fine before I showed up," he said as Neal and Andy shared another look he could not decipher; they couldn't help it at this point, he supposed, it just came too natural to them. "And I always knew...you'd get along fine after me, too." He smiled, his two closest friends astride young horses from his own stables, a token of his friendship and his small gesture to show that, in some way, he would always ride with them like they had in their youth, the Kings of the wild West.

***

They left with as little fanfare and notice as at Kyle's ranch, though the comforts of the guest cabin had persuaded them to stay for nearly three weeks longer, enjoying their luxurious solitude as much as possible. But the open plains called to them again, Neal's nerves growing restless when they stayed in one place too long, Andy's memories of another small cabin he had been the guest of entreating him to leave. Just like their departure from California they left a small stack of bills as payment for David and Kelly's generosity, if not for their hospitality then as maintenance costs for Sixx and Vera's well-being; a retirement plan, they thought with amusement, for their beloved horses out to pasture. Slipping away before any trace of sunrise, the pair believed they had made a clean escape; it was not until they rested at noontime did they discover a loaf of cornbread in Neal's saddlebag, slipped in by the lady of the house when they were not looking.

***

"Dave's an idiot. Sunrises are awesome."

Looking out as the first orange rays crested over the horizon, the very stones underneath them seeming to tremble in anticipation of the sun's warm embrace, Neal couldn't help but agree with Andy; their good friend needed to see more sunrises than just what Montana had to offer him. Riding with Joey as a part of the Kings, whose cloudy past seemed at its murkiest near the borders of Arizona, the territory had been off-limits to them; but now its natural beauty was open for Neal and Andy to take in and enjoy, and the pair found themselves resting upon its red clay soil more often in their travels.

The ground had yet to heat up from the day's desert sun, the air still crisp at the top of the canyon, nipping at any exposed skin, keeping Neal pleasantly alert. Out of all the lands they explored, the riches both tangible and unseen, this was certainly one of their favorites for both the breathtaking view of the canyon and the solitude it offered them: no settlers to recognize them, no lawmen on their trail, not even the Indians took the trouble to reach this rocky little paradise. Just the sound of soft breezes blowing through the canyon, the rushing waters of the Colorado River too far below them to hear, the presence of their horses happily grazing on shrubs nearby, and themselves, lazily enjoying their own brand of retirement in each other's arms, reveling in their well-earned peace.

Andy's head came down to rest upon Neal's shoulder, the quiet of the canyon enough to lull him into a contented sleep, though his expressive eyes were still wide open, not daring to miss the sun's grand entrance. It peeked over the horizon like a shy child, testing the waters before its daily debut, Andy and Neal its only admirers in this remote haven. Neal felt rather than heard the complacent sigh escape from Andy's lips, the arm around his waist pulling in a little tighter; but it was simply Andy's presence that caused the breath to catch in Neal's throat and a warm, comforting sensation to wash over his body, so sudden and pleasant it sent a shudder coursing through him.

"You know," Neal said, turning his head to brush lips against Andy's temple, breathe in his scent. The vibrations of his voice reverberated between them, and Andy felt them in the very core of his body, and he had to remind himself to keep breathing, and keep watching the skies. "I think I could stay here forever."

A gentle shifting of their positions and Andy was looking Neal in the eye, a confused expression on his face. Never had the sharpshooter shown interest in settling down, letting the dust rest underneath his boots; the open West had always been his home, the only place large enough to contain him. The canyon was a beautiful sight, enough to make any man imagine waking up to its precious sunrise for all eternity, but Andy had never considered it would be enough for _his_ man. "What, you mean Arizona?" he asked with a quirk of an eyebrow.

Neal sighed contentedly, shaking his head. "No."

Their gazes returned to the canyon, heads leaning against one another, supporting each other. Hands clasped, fingers entwined, they watched the sun break free of the horizon in the distance, rising ever higher to mark the beginning of a brand new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical notes:**
> 
> The bulk of the story was set 140 years ago, in the year 1879. (Yes, I had to set a date in my head or nothing would have felt right, haha.) The epilogue, ten years later, is obviously 1889, and a lot more of the classical Wild West activity has happened in that time. [Butch Cassidy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butch_cassidy#1880-1887_.E2.80.94_first_incidents.2C_becoming_a_robber), the famous outlaw, made his first bank robbery in Telluride, Colorado, in 1879, which started his storied life of crime. (I don't even have to tell you why [Telluride](http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2665/3832053296_efb0b7d09e.jpg) is an interesting coincidence. ;-)
> 
> [The Apache Kid](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Apache_Kid_\(Haskay-bay-nay-natyl\)) and [Nathaniel Reed](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nathaniel_Reed) (a.k.a. Texas Jack) were also outlaws active in the late 1880s.


End file.
